


Oranges from Vietnam

by Nisushi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1970s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Fluff, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Vietnam War, Recreational Drug Use, Scars, Veteran!Grantaire, mild depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisushi/pseuds/Nisushi
Summary: The colourful leaflet that had been pushed into his hands said it all, but Grantaire couldn’t help himself from asking “G.I. bill rights?”Courfeyrac stopped his round of handing out the leaflets, and grinned at Grantaire. Close to the windows, there was Enjolras turning around silently, and Grantaire had only felt that, hyper aware of Enjolras who was telling him that one more word… so that was exactly what he did. “Some say the war isn’t over yet.”What the year 1974 brings for the Amis, swings from dancing to Jazz to self-discovery to no penny in your pocket. All Grantaire knows is that it will still take a long time before he feels at home.
Relationships: Bahorel & Feuilly (Les Misérables), Bahorel & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac & Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Feuilly & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire & Montparnasse, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Musichetta & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	Oranges from Vietnam

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was certainly a project. 
> 
> To our team: Thank you so much for thinking and working with me, and helping me! Go check out my beautiful beta-reader @Sanctorums and artist @Cottonvanjogh (insta: @crabkazoo)!
> 
> Enjoy.  
> ~N

There were days when Grantaire thought back to the old man who collected messages in a bottle. He had encountered him only once, on the beaches of Vietnam. He was kneeling down, despite his fragile-looking figure, scanning the coastline for whatever he was looking for. Both our of curiosity and to kill the time, Grantaire had walked over to the man. The man had been quick to look up as Grantaire had approached. For a moment he had expected a hostile reaction from the older man, but this had soon vanished as the old man smiled up at Grantaire. He remembered that the man had no teeth but the one front tooth that slipped over his stretched lip.

“You need somethin’ young man?” The old man had spoken English, but the consonants disappeared in the toothless mouth.

“Nope, not me.” The man had shrugged and continued to look at the ground. “But d’you need help, sir? Did you lose something?” Grantaire had asked, desperate to continue the conversation. The old man hadn’t seemed to understand, and Grantaire had pointed at the ground. The man had laughed, a sound more fitting for a wheeze. Instead of telling Grantaire, he had taken an object out of his beaten up pouch.

A green bottle had been pried into Grantaire’s hands for him to inspect. Grantaire remembered how confused he had been, turning the bottle between his fingers. But then he had seen the roll of paper inside. The man had patted his shoulder, and shown Grantaire the rest of his collection with pride. They had sat there for a couple of minutes until Grantaire had been called back. Never before nor after in his whole entire life had there been another moment of peace like that.

Sometimes, Grantaire thought of that morning. He must admit that he had thrown a total of three bottles on their way to, he hoped so hard, that old man. There was the first time when he had just returned to his home, but hadn’t been able to sleep for a minute since he had taken off. There had been a shallow river beside the farmhouse he was staying in for the time being, and there was nothing to do to keep his mind busy. There was one night that he took a piece of paper and a pencil, tiptoed down the stairs and searched for an empty bottle in the scullery. He had only found one bottle of red wine with a quarter of its content still there. It had a cork, however.

Grantaire had savoured it until the last drop.

The message was short and simple: _I’m home_. Grantaire had wanted to scrap it and change it to _I’ve returned_ about three times, but decided against it. The river flowed about at the edge of the terrain, and Grantaire had looked down at the water before letting the bottle fall into the water.

When he thought of that moment, Grantaire could laugh at his own stupidity. He hadn’t been very smart, to think that the small river would lead the bottle all the way to the waters of Vietnam. To that one old man who was collecting messages in bottles. Would hopefully still be.

The second and the third time he had thought it through. They were both thrown into the ocean on the docks of the California beaches, which were close enough to Vietnam. Of course Grantaire knew that there was a very small chance that his messages would arrive in Vietnam, arrive anywhere, and let alone that old man. _But I have seen him_ , he had told himself. _I have seen him taking bottles from the beach._

And he had hoped. Grantaire had hoped that his messages would find Vietnam, had hoped that the old man had kept on learning English so he could understand. Had hoped that the man was still alive.

It was three years ago.

A broad man leaned against the open door to Grantaire’s bedroom. “You’re just lounging, yeah?”

Grantaire turned on his side to see Bahorel waiting for him. “I guess you can call it that.”

“Good. The meeting starts in ten minutes. Let’s go!” With that, Bahorel left Grantaire’s sight. Grantaire rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands, and looked outside of his window. Pale apartment balconies with washing lines and people enjoying the last bit of sun. He could be enjoying the sun.

“This is gonna be the last time, I swear!”

“That’s what you said last time too!”

*

The colourful leaflet that had been pushed into his hands said it all, but Grantaire couldn’t help himself from asking “G.I. bill rights?”

Courfeyrac stopped his round of handing out the leaflets, and grinned at Grantaire. Close to the windows, there was Enjolras turning around silently, and Grantaire had only felt that, hyper aware of Enjolras who was telling him that _one more word…_ so that was exactly what he did. “Some say the war isn’t over yet.”

“Yeah, you got it! We’re campaigning again.” Courfeyrac had beaten Enjolras to it. Joly gave him a questioning eye on the other side of the table. It was then that his friend told him that he wasn’t with him on this one, and that meant that Bossuet was also not standing on his side. Bahorel had gone as soon as the leaflets were passed around. That man could be gone for an eternity.

It wasn’t fair game: Combeferre was ticking his finger nails on the table top just beside Enjolras, looking a little bored now that his conversation had been interrupted. This man’s expression lied, however. Combeferre was listening to every word, and would be able to jump in to shine. Or had to silence anyone.

Grantaire sank a little lower in his chair and glanced over at Enjolras, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and to Grantaire’s sweet joy, glaring down at him. “ _You ought to give me more than this,”_ he hinted to him. Grantaire winked at him as a promise.

“Is that what we’re doing now? The bill was a problem when the war was still going on.”

“It _is_ a problem, Grantaire.” And finally, Enjolras had pushed himself off of the wall, and strutted over to Grantaire’s table. There was dampness just above his brow, making the tips of his curls soggy. During the Summer, Enjolras’ hair would curl more. Curls around his ears, curls bouncing on his forehead. Curls with wet tips because the Summer was so awfully hot. Grantaire wondered when the man would decide to cut it, so the tips wouldn’t have a chance to stick to his forehead. He had done the same last year.

“However, the solution is always there.”

“Is there even someone asking for that, though?” Grantaire murmured, but Enjolras had heard.

He slapped his hands on the table. “Ha! But there are!” A grin appeared on his face, making him look quite mad with his wide eyes. This was him celebrating a victory. “The LaGuardia program has asked us to.”

And Grantaire wanted to give him an applause. A very slow, two clap-applause. Enjolras would have enjoyed that, hated it for the act itself, but would jerk off to the fact that this was all Grantaire had for him today.

“Well, all I can say is congratulations, Apollo.” He gave a sly smile back, and Enjolras wouldn’t have it. The subtle clenching of his fists and a very second of his face hardening. That was Enjolras not yet claiming victory.

“As I said, this is still relevant to this day.” He narrowed his eyes at Grantaire, then turned around to address the whole group. “Our soldiers have returned, yet the government has failed so far to keep their promises. The G.I. bill has cut off the funding it will give to Vietnam vets. Which has become a pathetic excuse of an education funding. A mere 175 dollars to live off as a student, is, as we know, ridiculous. Especially for the average vet who has come from a lower-income family, this will never be enough to pay for a full education program.

“Now, the Veteran Administration has announced that half of the men eligible for the funding have not signed up for it. They are the minorities, and feel alienated, humiliated, and rejected by the VA offices.” He paused for a moment, and Grantaire thought he looked frustrated. He seemed to not be able to comprehend how the big plan of life didn’t fall into place immediately. That was injustice according to Enjolras.

“The Man has forced them to fight his war. Now, he has to give what he has promised.” Even with his back turned to him, Enjolras brought awe to Grantaire . Yes, he was awed. A table away, Jehan smiled at him with his head rested on the palm of his hand. _Caught you_. Grantaire clenched a hand over his heart and faked his shock for the dramatics.

Everyone was waiting silently because they were all expecting the same. Combeferre even shot him a glance from the other side of the room. Grantaire’s throat felt dry from the pressure.

“Can I ask what the big plan is?” Without the slightest tone of sarcasm and no nicknames added, Enjolras still took it as an attack.

He faced Grantaire, ready to shoot him down any moment. “We will be working closely with the veteran counselling program together with several other groups. The program LaGuardia wants to offer is helping veterans through the complexities of applying to the G.I. bill rights that they deserve. Our goal is to promote the importance of further education for vets to improve their circumstances _and_ the support of us as a society to the vets.

“We want to raise a 100.000 to fund the counselling program.” Enjolras was finished, and that frustration had changed to determination so rapidly that Grantaire had a hard time keeping up.

He had to give all his might to even look into his eyes as he said, “But there’s no chance.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“Hate to tell you, but the war is over,” Grantaire swallowed. “No one gives a single shit anymore.”

Enjolras shot down his own _But I care._ “That’s the whole point of also targeting the people not affected by this situation. Our campaign will include informing the people of what the vets have lost and what can help them. This is about the lack of awareness, not motivation.”

Grantaire scoffed. “There’s no lack of awareness, believe me. Sons of everyone have been returning over the last decade over and over again. Every week people have been confronted with the fact that, hey! We sent people to God knows where to fight, and look how they come back. All hopeless! People are tired, and all they want to do is forget about it.” He pleaded, and it made him cringe. Enjolras’ eyes never held mercy for him.

“There is no way people will turn their back towards their own kin.” Enjolras was rapid in choosing his words, as if he had practiced this argument at home. “When they learn about the real situation the war has led the vets to, then they will come to action.”

Grantaire laughed at that, so sharp that he was scared that Enjolras would punch him for it. That would be the first time. The short moment of wonder if he would love that too went through Grantaire’s head.

“Please, try then. Get your damn hundred thousand dollars, and you know what’s gonna happen then?”

Enjolras looked enraptured, something Grantaire savoured every time that they got to this point of pushing. There was also another small part of his stubborn self that didn’t want to believe that this was the solution. If Enjolras could have found a way to help the whole problem, then why had the VA made it so difficult for the greater part of the body that had served and suffered? Why had they told Grantaire that “You have no chance. I’m sorry, darling.”

“The vets are not gonna take the money.”

Bahorel was back. Grantaire felt his presence beside him without straying his eyes away from Enjolras. “And how would you know?” Here Grantaire worried about the man’s teeth, as he heard them gritting through his words.

“You said so yourself. They were forced to fight for The Man, so why would they want to have to do something with it ever again?”

“Can you maybe for _once_ not hate everything society can bring?!” Enjolras snapped.

“Can you maybe for once stay in your place?” Grantaire jabbed back.

There was Combeferre making his grand intervention. He took Enjolras’ arm to actually keep him in place. “Hey, we’ve got enough to do,” he said softly to Enjolras. “Didn’t you plan on discussing sponsorship search?”

Enjolras was dazed, looked at his friend and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

He looked like he still had so much to say, and Grantaire was willing to listen. Unfortunate for him that Enjolras shook himself and went back to the group. Grantaire was no longer worth looking at for the rest of the night. Grantaire held himself silent, and Bahorel had asked him a couple of times if he wanted to go home. “Why return? This is my last time, so I’ve gotta enjoy it to the fullest,” he had replied every time. Bahorel let him be until the meeting ended.

*

“It’s not that you want to make it harder for him, right?” Joly had meant it as a friendly snarl, but was having a hard time with covering the concern, He had told Grantaire enough times, his thoughts on how he was wrong in seeking the pleasure of Enjolras’ anger. This was Joly, and with him came Bossuet. They had made it clear at the beginning of the night that they chose no side, but now, here they were still walking next to Grantaire after offering to accompany him. Sometimes, Grantaire swore that the second he would catch either of them off guard, he could see that they must know.

He kicked away a pebble that had sat in front of his path. His leg was stiff after the day, so he had to go along with a peculiar waddle. “What if I say he already made the problem himself? I’m only there to point it out.” He held his palms to the sky, and laughed. “And his eyes, the personification of the problem itself.”

Joly punched him in his arm, but grinned at him. “You talk too much out of your ass, my man.” Bossuet quipped. “If it was true, you wouldn’t be alive anymore.” The three men laughed hard, startling a few passer-bys who were on their way to the nightlife. They didn’t hear the pairs of feet running through the still stunned crowd. Feuilly would have shaken his head at it. “Trouble-makers,” he used to say a lot.

“Hey, should’ve waited up for us!” It was Jehan who swung himself onto Grantaire, circling his arms around his neck. Grantaire had to hold onto the car that was parked beside them for them not to fall, as a low grunt escaped his mouth. Jehan let himself touch the ground again, but kept his frail arms around his friend. “Sorry, dear.” He then rolled against the car, stretching his back over the rounding. His hand led Grantaire to lean against the car as well.

Courfeyrac jumped in next to him. “We’re going out tonight. Any of you want to come along?” His forehead glistered from the streetlights and the sweat, which reminded Grantaire of another.

“You just came out of the café?” He didn’t ask for what the reason may be for the later departure. Or who may be.

He got a shrug back. “The leader wanted me for the last points on our promotion plan. He’s pissed by the way.” By the amused glint on his face, Grantaire understood that Courfeyrac didn’t mean to scold him. He also got offered a cigarette by him, who was already holding one between his lips. Grantaire wondered whether he started looking desperate from the moment Courfeyrac pushed the packet under his nose.

He was, and took one gladly. “I will take credit for that with much pride.”

Courfeyrac took his lighter out of his back pocket, and leaned his forehead closer to Grantaire’s. He flicked the object a couple of times before it worked, lighting both tips. Joly took two steps from them as they exhaled, frowning but saying nothing. “It was different this time, you know. Seemed that even he was not sure of himself for a second.”

His cigarette almost fell from his lips as when he barked out a laugh. “Our Enjolras questioning his own ideas? Wait until tomorrow, and he’ll be over it, parading all ‘round town with his campaign.”

“This is an important matter.” Courfeyrac frowned down at his feet, as if deep in thought. “Enjolras didn’t miss the point there. It’s not wrong to want to do something.” He threw his bud onto the pavement, and smothered it under his shoe. Then he grinned again, clapping Grantaire’s back and saying “But that aside, who’s in?”

Excited cheers were heard from Joly and Bossuet, but Grantaire left himself standing against the car while the others started to walk back. Jehan glanced over his shoulder. “Are you not feeling like it tonight?” Grantaire shook his head, smiling to reassure them. Still, Jehan’s eyes stood sadly.

“Bahorel is out tonight. I’ve gotta be home in case he forgot his keys again or something,” he said, hoping it was enough.

Jehan stepped out of Courfeyrac’s arms to Grantaire. “I can walk you there if you want to.”

“Nah, enjoy the night.” He saluted his friends with his cigarette between his two fingers and turned around when they said their goodnights. He strolled past the people and closed shops, then the parks and old buildings, and finally into his neighbourhood. He was panting by the time he had climbed up the stairs to the apartment, and he put all his weight on his left leg for his other to rest for a while. The rooms would be too hot for him now anyway, so better stay here in the hallway where the window had been opened at some point. There was a light breeze coming through it, enough for him to feel it down the hall.

Grantaire massaged his upper thigh for a bit, wincing when he touched a sensitive spot. The neighbours were out on their balcony, their laughs echoing between the building walls around them. He noticed the ants tripling behind each other into a crack in the wall. The wallpaper there was torn, curling around the edges. Downstairs, doors creaked because of the same breeze and someone hadn’t bothered to put them in their lock. His leg hurt like shit, and he was sweating buckets in this shallow hall. He could not find rest.

*

“And not even in the slightest does he see how much of an asshole he is!” Combeferre unlocked the door to their apartment, stepping aside for the raging Enjolras to enter first. He gave one more glance to the flailing arms that his friend was throwing around to express his fury. The point where Combeferre had become slightly worried was when the annoyance that had once been had changed of fury. As his friend, he thought it would be right to protect Enjolras from what or who caused him to be this upset. “What does he do, Ferre? What is his purpose in life? Ha! I can tell you exactly what he was meant to do on this planet. Nothing! He does nothing and he is nothing.”

“Why do you let him upset you then?” This was interesting. If he took Enjolras’ words, he would come to the point that “You let yourself get worked up by nothing.” With that, Enjolras’ body seemed to lose the raging energy it had been running on for the last hour. Combeferre gave a smile to his friend’s stunned face. “Isn’t that funny?”

“No fun in that,” Enjolras scoffed. “I want to get this campaign through. It’s important.” He was this close to pleading, so Combeferre didn’t have it in him to point out that he shouldn’t let anything he shouldn’t let anything upset him. “It’s not me who you need to convince anymore,” Combeferre reassured. He had been there when Enjolras had gotten the call from the LaGuardia offices, and worked with him at the same table on the campaign proposal. He could even say that Grantaire had struck him as well. If just a little.

“There is no chance Grantaire would be convinced.”

Combeferre mouth quirked up. “So you’ve given up on him?”

“I won’t let him keep me from my work.”

“Then I see no hindrance for the campaign. Yet, you said it yourself.” Combeferre paused, forcing Enjolras to look at him instead of bowing his head. “You’re not so sure anymore.”

“I never said that!” Enjolras gasped, as if he was surprised that Combeferre would actually say that. “Grantaire has no role in it, either way.” He was trying to convince himself. Enjolras had the habit to snare thoughts to himself, so to argue his uncertainties out of his own head. Combeferre knew that somewhere in that head, Grantaire was there as well. He had nested himself in there, and for all he knew voiced all Enjolras’ uncertainties. Hence Enjolras snarled at the real version as well.

“You implied it. And, Enjolras,” Combeferre patted his shoulder. “I think there’s no shame in listening to him. I even think he may be of more value for this campaign than you think.”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose. “And why would you think that?” But Combeferre only let go of him, and went past him to his bedroom.

“I also think you’ll find out yourself.”

*

Combeferre yawned as he stretched his sore back. He had kept himself at his small desk in his bedroom, even after the sound of Enjolras’ door closing. Notations of phone-calls and letters lay spread over the wood. For health reasons, Combeferre had taken them away from Enjolras’ rooms, insisting that the papers would still be there after night time. He promised to keep them safe. Now, Combeferre was doing the exact thing he was trying to stop Enjolras from doing. He had been scanning every page over for immeasurable times, searching for something that would spark inspiration for new ideas. Enjolras was right when he told him that this was important, and Combeferre wanted to help his friend more than anything.

He started when he heard his bedroom door opening. He squinted out into the corridor. Fortunately, it was Courfeyrac.

“You said you would be out tonight?” Combeferre straightened his glasses, so he could take a better look at him. Courfeyrac was beaming, despite his shirt that was damp from his sweat and the slumping of his shoulders that indicated that he was tired.

“I have already been. I just wanted to check on you before I went to bed. I saw light coming from under your door.”

From that, Combeferre knew he had pushed it far too late, and started piling up the papers. He still dared to ask what time it was.

Courfeyrac checked his watch. “Four in the morning.”

“Oh, _shit._ ”

He heard Courfeyrac laughing beside him. It was quickly repressed: Enjolras was still and should stay asleep. Courfeyrac walked over to help Combeferre with tidying up. “You’re a big boy. You can like, choose your own bedtime now.”

Combeferre smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t you think that working this late on this,” he gestured to the papers, “isn’t at least a bit hypocritical?”

“What the boss doesn’t know, the boss doesn’t know.” Courfeyrac leaned on the desk, watching Combeferre putting all the proof of tonight away. “What brought you to the worktable, anyway?”

Combeferre bit his lip, thinking about why he was there. He ought to say that it was for Enjolras, or for the veterans they were all trying to help, but in the end he had to admit with some chagrin: it was for nothing.

“I was looking for holes in our campaign plan, or, you know, further ideas for how we’re actually going to make this work.” He sighed, feeling a headache coming on. When he looked up, he saw Coureyrac waiting expectantly. “I thought Grantaire sounded like he knew what he was talking about,” Combeferre said at last.

“So, you noticed something as well.” To Combeferre’s surprise, Courfeyrac didn’t start his teasing. He even had his arms crossed, hand on his chin like he was thinking about what Combeferre had just said.

“Unlike some of us, I do notice that the man never says anything that couldn’t be probable.” What Combeferre thought was that Grantaire knew more than they already did on this field, which could mean a couple of things. For sure, he had had some kind of history with the VA. He pinched his nose. “Didn’t he go out with you tonight? Was there anything particular you noticed?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “He didn’t want to. Said he had to head back home for Bahorel.”

“Don’t say you went alone,” Combeferre chuckled. He nudged Courfeyrac away from his drawer, so he could put everything into safety.

“No, no. Jehan and Bossuet and Joly came along. Musichetta came pretty quick to get her bunch, though, so it was mostly just me and Jehan.”

“Oh, you guys had fun?” Combeferre quickly waved off the mention of the name in his head. There were shavings of his eraser all over his desk, so he began wiping them away.

“It was fine. You should come next time.” Courfeyrac had placed his hand flat on the top of the desk, and Combeferre stroked over it by accident. They looked at each other for a moment, and Combeferre was sure that they were both asking the same thing to the other with hesitance. They also both decided against, however, and strayed away from each other.

“I’ll think about it.” Combeferre stepped backwards slowly to his bed as a hint. Courfeyrac picked it up, and waved at him before moving to the door.

“Great. Goodnight then.” And he opened the door.

“Goodnight.” And the door was closed. Combeferre faintly touched his hand.

*

Above the employee’s entrance, the one that was situated in the small alleyway between the bar and the antiquarian shop, there was a small balcony. The neglected thing had never looked anything but rusty and unstable from down below. The inhabitant had still to prove that the balcony was safe for use. There would be a day the old woman, and Eponine knew it was an elderly lady who lived upstairs from that day that she had come down to sulk over the new bar owners, would stretch her neck further than the balcony and screech for attention. Then, Eponine would be interested to have a talk with her.

Now, the balcony served perfectly as a shelter for the bar staff.

“It’s shit weather. I’ve only got an hour left, so I hope it will clear up before then.” Musichetta stuck her hand out from under the balcony to feel the rain, and quickly retracted it with a groan. She pushed the butt of her cigarette against the brick wall of the bar, only halfway through it, and was already taking a second one. When Eponine had asked about the reoccurring habit, Musichetta had told her about trying to stop smoking. “Y’know, smoking kills,” she had said with a grin. So now she would smoke through two cigarettes to finish the packet quicker, but only smoked half of them to reduce the damage. 

“Better have this than sweating your ass off at night.” She had the attic at home, and together with her little brother and sister filling that small room it was the highest burning hell this planet might have ever known. Mosquitoes be damned: she was going to open up the windows tonight.

“Hey,” Musichetta had turned to Eponine, searching for discomfort when she put her hand on Eponine’s shoulder. Her frown was off-putting, because that was the concern she would expect from a mother. At this point, Eponine couldn’t even be angered anymore by the fact that Musichetta was more of a mother than her real one. “You can always come with me. Joly and Bossuet won’t mind.”

Eponine set her nails in her palm, because the idea of crying in front of Musichetta scared her. She smiled and shook her head. “Someone needs to take care of the little ones.” They, Azelma and Gavroche, weren’t so small anymore. They were in her head, but then sometimes she was reminded that Azelma was almost a woman and Gavroche was so close to the age of military enlistment. “Are your guys picking you up after your shift?” She asked in a haste, desperate not to think.

“Depends on when the meeting ends.”

“They’ve got one again tonight?”

Musichetta chuckled, tipping the ash off her cigarette. “I heard they got something big planned, so more get-togethers were to be expected. You were there last time, right? What’s it they’re planning?”

“No world domination or something of that sort.” Eponine thought back to the meeting, of how quite aggressively it was stated that The People must be made aware of the current problems in the world. But here she still was, under the rusty balcony, not fitting for their program but having to think about how to split the next meal between her siblings. “They’re working with a program that wants to kick the VA’s ass to actually do their job.”

Musichetta hummed. The drizzle had stopped by now. It was raining heavily.

“I’m happy I didn’t volunteer, seeing the government doesn’t give a crap about keeping their promises,” Eponine continued. She had been so close one time, signing up for an open position for nurse. They had promised exactly the same for her as they had now failed to give the soldiers. It made her feel sick to see some men in her neighbourhood marching like death through every day, as it was the only thing they still could do. That could have been her.

There was that frown again, and she was pressing her lips together. Maybe she had a thousand questions she wanted to ask, or an urge to hit her real mother for letting her go that far. Or maybe hit Eponine for even considering it. “It’s good you didn’t, then,” she said at last. She looked at her half-burned cigarette, before putting it out against the same brick. “Better get inside before your old man adds these breaks on top of my shift.”

Eponine shifted to head inside again, when a man’s shouts echoed through the alleyway. Musichetta was quick to turn her head towards the sound. It must have not come from far, and it continued to come closer to where they were standing.

A shadow of a man came around the corner of the main street. Then there were two others, and it didn’t take long to realise that they were not trying to make friends with the first guy.

“Hey!” Musichetta balled up her hands and stomped into the rain that she loathed so much. She was already halfway between Eponine and the guys when they noticed her. When they didn’t make an immediate run for it, Eponine left her position under the balcony as well.

“What d’you think you’re doing with this lad, ha?” Musichetta pointed violently at them, as if she was going to attack them with her finger. The guys were massive, all three of them, but Eponine could see the two assaulters were under the influence of… something. Their eyes were glazed over when they looked down at Musichetta.

“What does it have to do with you?”

“What it has to do with me is that I work here, asshole. I’ve gotta keep my clients safe.” She was livid, shaking all over when she shot one glance over to the man who was now slumped against the wall, held up by the silent guy under his armpits. She took a step too close, and Eponine was too late to take her.

“Hey, let me be your client.” His hand then touched Musichetta’s shoulder. He had a lot of scars, Eponine noticed. White lines and red misshaped skin were all over his hand that curled around Musichetta’s shoulder. He tried to shove her against the wall as well, but then Eponine took his free arm and twisted it. She found a dent in his skin with her thumb, so she pressed there hard.

The man let go of Musichetta and cried out until he fell onto his knees. The other man had stepped away from the guy they had just attacked, and looked lost at what to do next. “You Bitch,” he said dumbfounded, like he couldn’t figure out what had just happened.

Musichetta was in front of him within a second, grabbing his shirt and dragging his face down to hers. “You better go, or I will punch your junk-face.”

He had understood, and taken his friend up from the ground. He spat at them, murmuring “Fucking lieutenant lickers.”

They had gone off, back to the main road and out of sight, and the girls waited a moment for their return. They didn’t come back. “Are you alright?” Eponine looked at Musichetta’s shoulder. Her shirt was wrinkled there, as a shadow of the grip that had been there. Musichetta only straightened her sleeve before turning to the man who was still propped up against the wall.

“Is everything okay? Did they hurt you badly?” Musichetta squatted down to the guy’s level, and a thought went through Eponine’s head that the woman would have been so much better than her at first-aid volunteering. The man had been beaten up, but not too badly. It was mostly his face, where his hair was messed up and almost covered his eyes, but a black eye just peeked out from under the strands. His lip was split as well, and he was holding his arms around his chest. They must have kicked him in the ribs.

The man only grunted, looking up for the first time. “What d’you want?”

Eponine sat down next to Musichetta, and slowly raised her hand towards him to inspect the injuries. “We’re just trying to help you.”

Then the man flinched back with so much power that he hit the back of his head against the wall. “Don’t touch me!”

“Hey, fucker. I said we’re only trying to-”

“Don’t touch me with your filthy hands! I don’t need help from you immigrants.” He tried to wave them off, but Musichetta was there to get him to his feet and shove him out of the alleyway.

“We made up half of your stupid army!”

And he was also gone. Hopefully, he would find the two guys again. Eponine didn’t know she was trembling until Musichetta took her hands. “I’m just cold,” she gave as an excuse. Musichetta didn’t make a move to walk back to the bar, however. They were drenched, no longer presentable for work. Yet Musichetta kept them there, away from the balcony, her thumbs caressing Eponine’s hands.

Eponine sniffled. “What the fuck.” Because what was that? She was already so exhausted from the hot summer nights that she had to share with her siblings, and then there were her parents who had made her believe that they would be happier without her. Who was this guy to be the last bit of shit she could handle?

“Vets. All three of them,” Musichetta answered without having heard her questions. “It’s pretty common. Former-lieutenants getting hunted down and beaten up, I mean. I almost feel sorry for the guy.” She gave a grim smile.

“He didn’t deserve to say any of that.”

“He didn’t. And so didn’t the other guys deserve to do anything they did. But, guess it just happens.”

Eponine slumped against Musichetta, and let her stroke her back. It was true: The men who marched out and into their houses like death weren’t helped, and she wasn’t either.

Musichetta took her face into her hands, made her look up at her. “Go home with me tonight. The little ones will survive one night alone.”

And with that, Eponine wiped her eyes and nodded slowly.

*

As dawn would break, and it would do now in the early hours of the day due to summertime, Jehan could be found cross legged on the ground to enjoy the first rays of sun and water his four houseplants. There was only an exception to cloudy mornings, when the sun would be blocked out of their living room.

Around nine in the morning this day, Jehan was sitting there in front of the window. They had three carpets in this room, one conveniently covering the area that the morning sun would touch. Feuilly had put the third one there after Jehan had been vaguely complaining about his ass getting numb and sometimes even cold from sitting on the floor for a long time. Feuilly skipped suggesting that maybe taking one of their chairs every morning would be a solution for his increasing back pain, and instead got him a new carpet from the dump. It was a beautiful thing, and had saddened Jehan first when he thought about anyone throwing it away.

“You’ll have to wake up soon, Izabella.” He let his head rest on the palm of his hand, a tuft of red hair escaping from where it had been bound. He sighed at his Izabella, the plant that sitting in the corner of the low windowsill. She had not opened up yet, even with the sun having arrived for some time now.

“Take your time, it’s no problem. I had some difficulty getting out of bed just now, too.”

Izabella’s leaves moved by the breeze that came through the ventilator.

Jehan chuckled. “Yes, that’s true. Sleeping buddies.” And he whooped quietly with his fist in the air.

The front door opened with a creak. “How are you all doing?” Feuilly asked after spotting Jehan on the floor. He hung up his worker’s bag on the door handle and stepped into their living space. He looked worn, but satisfied.

“Shouldn’t you’ve been to bed already?”

“They needed me for some extra hours.” He gritted his teeth to keep in a groan when he tried to sit down next to Jehan. The smell of sweat and garbage lingered in the air, and Feuilly tried to lean away a bit. “Are they doing alright?”

“Why are you asking?” Beside him, Feuilly was staring at the plants with the intensity that his drooping eyelids could handle.

“You were frowning a little.” He waved at his own brow to illustrate it.

Jehan hummed, amusement turning up his lips. “Izabella isn’t waking up.” He pointed at her when he saw Feuilly searching. “I was waiting for it to happen for some time now. I’ll keep her company on her last days.” He didn’t want it to be a sad ending, but some melodrama wouldn’t ruin anything.

“Oh, shit. Do you need anything?” Feuilly sounded pained. That this wasn’t a real heartbreak, Jehan would keep it to himself.

“No, I’m fine. With Death always comes a little grieving.” He let himself fall to Feuilly’s side, who was just in time to get closer and catch him. His neck was damp, and Jehan buried himself in it. “With Death, another comes alive.”

“Hmm?” Under him, Feuilly was losing strength in his arms, slowly sliding closer to the floor.

“That’s the circle of life. Doesn’t that give peace to the mind? The idea that Death will create something new, that it’s all about recycling?”

“Isn’t there something called heaven?”

Jehan grinned. “Depends on what you believe in.” Feuilly was on the ground now, and had taken Jehan with him. “Isn’t it reassuring for all the families who lost one or a few? I would love the idea that my girl would find a new life instead of wasting away a couple of lifetimes in the sky.” He rambled on, stretched his arm to the ceiling. “When your brothers or sons or fathers have died, wouldn’t you be happy to know that he would have a chance to start all over. Or your sister or mother, you would want them to find peace while living, right? Nothing of that peace in heaven, because how could you indulge when you’re unconscious?” Feuilly’s chest staggered, his laugh shaking Jehan’s head.

“What have you been smoking?”

“Love, my friend. Only love.”

*

When Courfeyrac would say there was going to be a party at his apartment, there was an underlying command, not a request, to bring three bottles of alcoholic beverages per invited person. Having been to a handful of them and Grantaire could still whine about the loss of his earnings after such a party.

Despite that, Bahorel and he were standing there in front of the door, six tall bottles clinking against each other while they tried holding them between their fingers.

The door swung open, Courfeyrac in the corridor with excited surprise all over his face like he hadn’t seen the two in ages. “Well, haven’t I been waiting for you to arrive!” He had a box ready in the hallway, and took it to hold it out for them. “Taxes please.”

He scanned every single bottle that they had put in the box, but Grantaire doubted they guy was still able to read the labels. Over Coufeyrac’s shoulder, Grantaire could pick out some familiar faces. He still hadn’t succeeded to notice a blonde head in the crowd.

“C’mon, it’s stifling out here,” Bahorel growled impatiently. “At least let me be hot inside!”

“Okay, you’re clear. Go on.” He stepped aside, and Bahorel had already stormed inside, but Grantaire was held back by the gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked around to see Courfeyrac’s hooded expression. “If you really wanna know, he’s here. Just out on the balcony.”

Grantaire quirked up his eyebrow at that. “And what do you know?”

“Pah! Enough.” His eyes softened then. “Go have a drink, have fun. But… what do they always say? Make love, not war?”

Grantaire slipped out of his grip, huffing out a laugh before going further inside. “You’re a couple of years too late saying that,” he muttered.

He did take a drink, or maybe four, but to his credit he only looked thrice at the clock that hung in the kitchen before he made his way to the balcony of the apartment. It was thirty minutes after he had arrived, which he called control. Grantaire praised himself for it.

Sliding open de glass door came with some struggle and a lot of screeching sound, so Enjolras was immediately notified by Grantaire’s intrusion. He could cut Grantaire some slack, with the speed that his face went from neutral to a frown when he saw that it was him stepping over the sill and closing the sliding door behind him.

“Why are you here?”

Grantaire barked out a laugh. “Good evening to you too, Apollo! Why am I here, you asked? I thought a night that could lead to so many mistakes and stupid actions was exactly what I needed. What better place to find that than Courfeyrac’s humble apartment?”

“I live here as well.” Enjolras was sharp tonight. He left no room for conversation, and maybe he had realised himself that evening. That was why he had locked away this ugly monster that his personality was sometimes on this lonely balcony. But he had yet to swallow the keys.

Grantaire held up his hands in defense. “I’m sorry, I know. Didn’t want to offend you.” He dropped himself down next to Enjolras as close as he dared, letting his legs dangle over the edge.

He heard Enjolras huff, and his eyes held the tiredness they always had during the meetings under all the energy he got from wherever. Sometimes, Grantaire imagined him working on pure adrenaline, only to get him through the next twenty four hours, and then to do it all over again. The bags under his eyes said enough about his sleep. He had none.

“And I know you wouldn’t. Or, at least now.” He left the other thousand times Grantaire did try to seek offence out of the conversation. “I meant, what are you doing here, as in specifically here?” He tapped the tile that was between them.

Grantaire had to ask himself that as well, because why had he planned to come here the moment Courfeyrac even mentioned it? He knew the answer, but had to come in terms with it every time this would happen. This, as in the planning that went into looking cool enough and not run towards the glass door immediately after stepping over the threshold. It was about the clock-watching, so nervous about the time going too slow for his liking and clamping his fingers around his plastic cups. It was about how much it made him feel sometimes, something Grantaire had not done since his return. The real answer to all of that was not an it, but a him. And the answer was sitting right next to Grantaire.

He simply shrugged. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to look at the skies now that they know of freedom.”

“If I had thought you were serious, I would’ve answered that with that this is exactly what we’re fighting for.” His tone wasn’t one of irritation, or even disappointment. It was like he was trying to figure out something.

“Well, wouldn’t it be just like you to use the sky to convince people to join your small army.” Grantaire wanted to laugh again, to imply that he was joking and maybe would piss off Enjolras in another way than when he would leave it there as an insult. Then, to his surprise, Enjolras touched his arm. Grantaire was forced to look at him, and what he saw was a plea.

“Let’s not talk about what will drive us mad, okay? Not tonight.”

Grantaire was shocked, but didn’t lean away from the hand on his arm that felt like a burn mark in this heat. “Then we won’t. I can try, honestly.” He held up his lucky pinkie, but when Enjolras did not seem to take the hint in all his confusion, Grantaire was fast to let his hand fall again. ”We could talk about the sales at our local grocery stores.” He tried lightly. “Compare the different sales, see who got the best deals- or would we disagree on that as well?”

The joke went beyond Enjolras, his eyes narrowed as if he didn’t know whether go along with this or not. Grantaire got it, that he wasn’t a person to be trusted. He wouldn’t trust himself.

“I’m really not in the mood for this-”

“Then what about the last movie you saw? I didn’t want it to come to this, but your reluctance to talk about our local businesses doesn’t give me a choice. Such a bummer, I have to say.” He rambled, now that the night was tiring him and the alcohol had taken away his filter.

It was then that Enjolras actually snorted. It was quite loud, like he was trying to keep it in really hard. He shoved his free hand onto his mouth with a quick motion. “You’re willing to do small-talk with me,” he said softly under his hand.

“But why wouldn’t I, dear Apollo?” 

The roll of his eyes said enough. The familiarity of it brought such warmth to Grantaire’s chest that shouldn’t be appropriate. “Okay, I get it. Just trying to make conversation, though.”

“I’ve never been.”

Grantaire looked to Enjolras, caught in the moment. “What?”

There was something so self-conscious about Enjolras at this moment that Grantaire had never seen. It could have to do with the fact that they also never had come this close to a normal conversation, but it was off-putting. Grantaire felt like he could scream any moment at Enjolras, begging for instructions on how to deal with this Enjolras.

“I have never been to the movies, to answer your question.” He shrugged, having put an arm around himself. “Just making conversation.”

“Hah! Didn’t know you had some comedy in there.” Grantaire laughed harder than he should have, because it wasn’t that funny, but it was enough to get Enjolras’ lips to turn up. He was amused, and this was probably the first time that he had made Enjolras feel that way.

“Well, you would have known if you didn’t always start a fight with me.” There was a smirk in that tone, because tonight Enjolras wasn’t there to scold him on his behaviour.

“Maybe I will let it slide sometimes, then.”

Grantaire let Enjolras take his time to think what he would do with that. They both turned to the scenery before them. In contrary to Grantaire’s place, this side of the building had a pretty spectacular view on a great park and skyscrapers behind it. Enjolras’ hand was still around his arm, not having moved up or down and feeling a little clammy by now. The soft sound of him breathing next to Grantaire was still not completely relaxed.

“Did something happen?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Enjolras avoided his eyes for a moment, trying to find some words to explain maybe. “It’s not going as I would’ve liked it to be at this point.”

It took some time for Grantaire to realise what he was talking about. “You mean the campaign?” Enjolras nodded. “Didn’t you say we wouldn’t be talking about politics tonight?”

At least that could get a smile from him. “Yes, and I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but I can’t find myself to tell Combeferre or Courfeyrac and…” Enjolras swallowed down what Grantaire assumed to be the first cry of frustration. He was relieved, because he wasn’t sure if he could have handled that.

“And I had to tell someone.”

The flicker of pride that he felt when Enjolras opened up had faded away again. Grantaire had to keep telling himself that he would never be more than a mere human for Enjolras to talk at, or scream or shout at. He wouldn’t show his defeat, and pushed himself to smile. Very careful, he even got his hand on Enjolras’ back.

“It’s okay when things don’t go as planned. That tends to happen in life.” The way Enjolras looked up at him with wide eyes showed that he hadn’t expected Grantaire to come back at him like that. There was also suspicion, as if he wanted to be ready for the moment that Grantaire would admit to sarcasm. But Grantaire had promised not to do that tonight.

“I… um, may know something that could help you.” Grantaire said it carefully, scared for the backlash that Enjolras could give when he felt threatened. Enjolras eyes only turned wider, in awe now.

“I told you that the problem lies in the vets’ motivation, right?” Enjolras nodded heavily, urging him to go on. Grantaire couldn’t believe himself in what he was going to say next. “Okay, so whatever program you’re starting up, and it could be a fucking good program, it would do nothing to the participation.”

“We’ve seen that, yeah,” Enjolras said quickly. “We’ve had surveys being send around on the experience of vets with the VA and such. Half didn’t even answer, and the other half said everything sucked about the funding.”

Grantaire swallowed the ‘told you so’ that would have tasted so sweet leaving his mouth. _But only for a short while_ , he told himself. “So, what if I told you I have friends in this group we’re targeting?” Enjolras almost exploded at that, gripping Grantaire’s free hand so hard he almost cut of the blood circulation. The new found energy in his eyes was all worth it, however.

“Why haven’t you told us you knew people from the inside?” Enjolras almost screamed.

Grantaire felt his face grow hot, and he was afraid of his hand sweating so much that maybe Enjolras would be disgusted by it. He wouldn’t, and didn’t let go.

“I thought it was better to give them privacy, is all.” That wasn’t true, as Grantaire hadn’t thought about ever speaking of or to his acquaintances from the outside again. He had visited one man after his return, because he had seen him as his closest friend. He had killed himself three months ago. “But if you’re really struggling, then maybe I can make an exception and ask them to do some inside promotion?”

“In this whole year, I haven’t ever heard you speaking of solutions.” It was only an observation, which was a true one, and Grantaire understood why Enjolras might have felt suspicious after this.

“You see, I have many sides to me.”

Enjolras’ arms were suddenly around him, and Grantaire had to let go of his back because of the shock his whole body went into. This was what he was talking about when he said this man made him feel so much. His body was thumping, blood rushing so fast that he knew it would be hard to fall asleep tonight.

“R, you don’t know how much I would appreciate that. We, all of them. This is what we need to make a change.” Enjolras pressed his chin onto Grantaire’s shoulder before loosening his arms so he could look at Grantaire.

“You called me by my nickname,” he observed.

Enjolras tried to hide his embarrassment under a wobbling grin. “Is that so weird. You call me stupid nicknames all the time.”

Grantaire wanted to argue that he had never come up with any stupid nickname when Courfeyrac swung himself onto the balcony with an overwhelmed boy behind him. “Enj, look what- Did I interrupt anything?” Enjolras let go of Grantaire entirely, even stood up to take a step back from him. The disappointment Grantaire felt almost topped the euphorie from just then.

“Nothing. Who is that?” Enjolras sounded prickled now, determined to show there was indeed nothing that Courfeyrac could have walked into.

“Enj, you’ll never guess! I got this guy,” Courfeyrac gestured towards the lanky boy standing behind him. He looked as if he absolutely didn’t want to be here and was scared of what still had to come. “Who works as a volunteer for the VA. He’s a translator!”

The guy waved at them with an awkward air around him. He only looked down at where Grantaire sat, but had only given a little gasp before rapidly turning away. “I heard about your program, and I want to know if I maybe could help out.” He made a choking sound when Courfeyrac threw his arm around his neck.

“Ain’t that perfect? We’ve got eyes from the inside now.”

At that, Enjolras briefly let his eyes land on Grantaire, then stepped to the boy to shake his hand. “It’s nice to know that you’re willing to help… uhm-”

“Marius Pontmercy.” He shook his hand with Enjolras.

“Marius.” And with that, Courfeyrac continued to introduce the two with a promise to show Marius around the whole group. This did not involve Grantaire, as Courfeyrac was already shoving the others back inside without introducing him.

Enjolras looked over his shoulder, and gave Grantaire a reassuring smile before he disappeared. Grantaire let himself fall down onto the tiles, feeling warmer than the apartment with the dancing crowd must have been.

*

“You should’ve asked a ballerina for this.” Eponine yawned. Her arms were hurting from holding up her weight for some time, and her right foot started to cramp from the unnatural pose Grantaire had instructed her to take. He foot was curling up at the toes, the instep forming a half moon shape. She stared narrowly at the man with the pencil in front of her.

“Do you think I have the balls to go ask a professional dancer to do this for me? And besides, your feet are very nice.” He laughed as he heard Eponine voicing her disgust.

“Everything hurts.”

“What do you think of my back right now?” Grantaire had been hunched over the papers, his shoulders almost touching the ground he was sitting on. Had he not given his life to his pencils, then maybe he wouldn’t be slumping and limping every other day. Thinking about the stupid decisions her friend enjoyed to make, let an easy smile appear on Eponine’s face.

He flickered his gaze to her. “Stop moving. It will only take longer if you do that.” It was already in the early hours of day. Grantaire had taken her with him back to his place after he had found her at Courfeyrac’s party. He had been jovial, jumping up and down and urging the importance that she would come with him. That it would be another posing session was not what Eponine had expected. They had sat on the cool floor of his hot room with table lamp next to her foot for two hours, and she was still waiting for him to come with a story.

“It’s my fucking muscles. Can’t really control their suffering under your oppression.”

Grantaire was roughly scraping the side of the led against the paper, his brows knitted together at the result. “Art is suffering.”

She laid there for awhile after, looking at the damp spots on the ceiling, trying to read the titles of the books in the shelf from far. Then she had had it.

“What’s gotten you all excited?” He tried to suppress a grin, but it succeeded to raise his cheeks.

“Nothing a normal man wouldn’t get excited about. Maybe I’ve indulged myself tonight, who knows.” Eponine noticed it: he was looking smug. It only got her more curious.

“But are you a normal man?”

“That’s open for debate.”

“What’s up, R.” She tried to poke him with her other foot, but was stopped by the hand that caught her. He massaged her as a form of payment. But that was not what she was hoping for. Her question seemed to have made Grantaire contemplative, and he had even laid down his pencil to think about an answer. It meant that he was already deciding on whether to tell or not.

“Enjolras was there too,” he said at last, and brought his pencil back to the paper to distract himself.

“He lives there, you doofus. There’s nothing special about that.”

“Hadn’t I mentioned that already?”

“There’s a reason you’re telling me about this.” Eponine didn’t need a long time to realise it. Her eyes widened, and her smile stretched out. “What’ve you been doing with our Enj?”

There was a sound of paper being crumbled lightly under his fingers. Grantaire looked up from his paper now, feigning nonchalance. He didn’t know there was a touch of redness to his cheeks.

“Keep your fantasies in your head, nothing like that happened.” Eponine knew that now that she had planted the idea of it, the fantasies were actually playing in Grantaire’s head. “Did you know he’s never been to the movies?” He said it with wonder.

“You had some civil talk tonight?”

“Bet you we did.” He was so infectious on every front. Now, when he was with his head in the clouds, Eponine couldn’t help but feel a bit in love herself. “I offered to help with the campaign,” he quipped.

Eponine sat up straight to be able to directly look at him. The pencil had been dropped, so the foot was done. “Isn’t that great. What did you say?”

“That I know some friends who we concern about.”

They were friends Eponine had heard about. They weren’t the kind of friends who you would meet on your free weekend afternoon to have a drink with. They were more the convenient connections that you would go to if you needed something. Still, Eponine took him into her arms. “R, I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t make me blush now. Bahorel could get in here any moment.” But Grantaire leaned into her chest even more, so she could wrap her arms around his neck.

“And don’t see it as a small deal, you. This is kind of fucking big.” Bigger than them, and bigger than the country. She was no Enjolras, but she would lie if she wasn’t dead worried about her brother’s future.

“I still have to go there, though. It’s too soon to celebrate.”

Eponine caressed his head, combing through the messy curls. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still be proud of you.”

They kept close to each other, Grantaire sliding his hands over her back and Eponine moving her fingers through his hair. He seemed to like it a lot, and was close to sleep from her movements only. She would remember it for the next time.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. She was planning to let him drift to sleep, and then maybe call Bahorel to help her lift Grantaire unto his bed. Eponine hadn’t brought this into account, however.

She was moving her fingers over his scalp, and Grantaire sighed happily. She gasped when she came close to his ear, but didn’t feel the thing there. There was her instinct pushing her to check again, because maybe she was also this close to sleep.

Grantaire wouldn’t have it, and was already scrambling up to the other side of the room, as far as he could get from Eponine.

“R-” Her reaching hands were met by defensive hands. He was too late now. There was nothing to hide anymore after this reaction. Grantaire’s eyes stood wide out of fear, and Eponine wanted to laugh and tell him that she wouldn’t hurt him. But she couldn’t do anything. He just looked like the lieutenant from last week.

“Don’t tell anyone.” He was pushing his palm against where his ear should be. And then Eponine realised that, _shit there should be an ear there_. Grantaire had seen that she had made the observation.

“What’s even happened-”

“I’m not going to tell you, alright.” He said it as if he was trying to untrouble her, and not the other way around.

“I didn’t know.” But now, Eponine felt like this was the first time she had taken a proper look at Grantaire. The hands he was holding up to protect himself were demolished. The hands could easily be written off as the average working man’s hands, but it was too much of ugly white scars and ragged, red skin that pulled up from the rest for it to be normal. His left hand missed half a fucking pink.

It was anger was slowly boiling up in her. She didn’t want it to be because of him, because of that he had not trusted her enough to tell. Eponine would gladly drive all that upwelling anger to the people who had done this and wouldn’t reach out a single hand to help him. She was angry for him, but also at herself.

“No one knows, or not a lot do.” He let her see his eyes once more, intense to the point of panic. “Just… don’t tell anyone. Especially not Enjolras.” The way Grantaire held himself there in the corner of his room, Eponine couldn’t do anything but obey him.

“Okay, I can do that.” She then let her arms fall, showing that she had no wish to inspect him anymore. Grantaire kept himself in his corner, and all Eponine wanted to do now was to bring him to his bed and embrace him again.

“Not a word,” she said.

*

When everyone had left except for the inhabitants of the apartment, Jehan let himself drown in the couch next to Courfeyrac. While Enjolras hadn’t shown his face around anymore after leaving Courfeyrac with his new-made friend Marius, Combeferre had cared to tell them that he headed to bed and wish them a good night. The two had waved at him with slugged hands, and sighed into each other’s necks.

Jehan heard the clock ticking with how quiet they kept themselves, even in this state of drunkenness. There was the sound of cars racing over the road behind the building, and the electricity zooming lowly from the lamp Combeferre had turned on in his bedroom.

“Isn’t he nice?” Courfeyrac stared wonderstruck at the ceiling, his fingers carding through Jehan’s locks. Jehan hummed in agreement, and turned up his chin to get a better look at Courfeyrac. Through all the hair, Courfeyrac’s eyes locked with his. His smile became big, with a twinkling in his eyes.

“I think you are nice too.” Jehan laughed with a gasp when Courfeyrac dove down and started nosing his neck.

“And you are nice.” With him talking and so close to Jehan, Courfeyrac had accidentally bitten him lightly in his throat. A shiver went down his spine, and then twirled through his whole body after. Courfeyrac hadn’t noticed yet what he was doing with him. “So nice. Nice, nice, nice.” He grunted and slid his hands around Jehan’s torso.

“Shhh, you don’t want to wake up anyone, do you?” He giggled, playfully pawing at the other before relaxing into his arms. Jehan loved people. He fell in love with everyone he ever met, but some he fell for a little harder. Courfeyrac was soft against him, sliding the palm of his hand over his back.

“You’re wonderful, really. Have I ever told you that? You must have heard it already like, a thousand times.”

Jehan bit his lip to keep in a squeak of giddiness. “No.”

Courfeyrac grabbed his face, so he could look at him. His eyelids were drooping, and it looked funny with how he tried to look very serious. “You’re so wonderful.”

Jehan flung his arms around Courfeyrac, and sighed contently when he felt the other wiggle even closer. He was content.

“You wanna sleep?” Courfeyrac sounded slurred, and his eyes were already closed.

“No… let’s talk a little more.” But Courfeyrac was already breathing evenly. “Or we won’t.” A trace of his smile stayed there when he studied Courfeyrac’s relaxed face. His breath stocked, and his heartbeat quickened with loud thumps. Then, Jehan took a chance to kiss him on his forehead.

He was quick to retract himself from the arms. Only far enough to take a look at Courfeyrac properly. His face was burning, but Courfeyrac hadn’t given a kick. He thought faintly of that he could get used to this, and the thought tingled.

Jehan buried himself in Courfeyrac once more, and fell asleep with his breaths and the clock and the cars outside.

*

The sun hadn’t had her chance to peak above the skyline yet, when Feuilly walked out of the house and onto the streets. On Mondays and Wednesdays, this was the start of his working day. On Thursdays and Saturdays, it meant the end. Then, on those days, Feuilly would fall asleep to the harsh light that intruded his room, even though he had spent so much time on hollering quilts and tapestries and taping them on the wall over his window. Jehan had slipped out on accident that he was planning on buying real black out curtains for his birthday, those really expensive ones that also worked. It was almost his birthday.

It was just past five in the morning , the streets empty and also no life being found in the shops that he walked by. The bag hanging on his shoulder was heavy, as he had found some objects around the room that they had not needed anymore, and he thought some colleagues were glad to take it. There was also a skip in his step, which made him feel some embarrassment in the rare moments that other people crossed his path. He had had a good night sleep, however, at least eight hours, so who was he to stop himself from feeling more chipper than normal?

There had been a call from Bahorel this morning just before his alarm went off, which made him late with a story that Bahorel had sworn was of importance because it had to do with Katy, his co-worker from his Tuesday job. It turned out that Katy was telling people she was pregnant, and had done so too when she met Bahorel at the bar last night. It was a hoax, was what Feuilly had told him. In the breaks from their shared shifts, Katy had once looked smug about her strategy to scare off anyone who had shown interest in her. “Asshole,” Bahorel had grumbled, and then hung up. This took Feuilly ten minutes behind schedule, but there were no cats in the hallway downstairs to feed this morning, which put him on schedule again.

He stepped over the trash that lay around on the pavement, peaked into the black holes of broken windows, and read the same faded and smudged shop signs that he read every other Monday and Friday. Jehan and he lived just on the edge of the alright part of town, which made them only by a bit (one post office) better off than the beaten up neighbourhoods of Washington. They were housing with a middle-aged couple who were also renting other rooms to three junks. It was straight up luck that they had found this place, or they would have still be camping in the sketchy apartment building that had been hit hard by the economic crisis.

Most shops, buildings, houses, and even people around these streets had suffered from the crisis, in all honesty. The barricaded doors and neglected shops that attracted the worst pests that the city could offer said enough about what a shock after a time of prosperity could do to a country that had once called itself the Dream.

The people hadn’t asked for it, their streets became more dangerous for and by them. This part of town revolved around dishonest money. It was the shortest way to Feuilly’s job, however. He unconsciously tightened the grip around the straps of his bag.

His Monday and Friday job was sorting work at the local dump of the surrounded neighbourhoods. It paid nothing, but everything that he found he could take home. So that’s why Feuilly had taken on this job a year ago when he had seen the application somewhere.

He worked for an old man named Nicholas, who had migrated with the whole family to The States before the second World War. All he had ever done here was sorting out trash, and he was content. Sometimes his granddaughter came to help for some extra pocket money, but he would always tell Feuilly that “I didn’t pay her more than you! You’re my top worker!”, and Feuilly would answer with a laugh that he was the only worker he had.

The storehouse came in sight, and Feuilly fastened his pace to the wire gates. Only when he got there, he stopped himself. It seemed that Nicholas had been waiting for him at the gates instead of already working inside, like he always did. He was sitting on a rusty oil barrel, looking sullen, even from where Feuilly was looking, and he could only see the man’s balding head.

His first thought was, there must have happened something to his family, and then We have been robbed. He swallowed, and decided to let the man know he was here.

“Morning, Nicholas. Are you alright there?” He walked closer, and the man seemed to finally notice that his employee was there. He looked up, an exhausted expression quickly hidden behind a poor smile.

“Feuilly, was just waitin’ for you.”

Feuilly checked his watch, and frowned at it. “I’m not later than when the shift starts. You didn’t say anything about changing times last week, did you?”

The man shook his head to reassure that he was on time, but he kept his place on the old barrel. “No, I didn’t.”

“I’ll be inside, then.” Feuilly began to make his way to the door, but was stopped again by a hand on arm. Nicholas had to support himself on Feuilly to get up from the seat, his bones creaking in the process. Feuilly’s stomach plummeted when Nicholas looked at him for the first time today.

“I can’t pay you anymore, boy.”

Feuilly let his mouth fall open to say something, but couldn’t think of anything. He couldn’t start about it being a joke, that the man was playing with him, because Nicholas’ eyes were so painfully honest. “What do you mean?”

Nicholas sighed. “It’s my promise to my family to provide for them, but I just can’t keep up with the costs of keeping up this place anymore.” He paused, then let go of Feuilly’s arm. “As much as it pains me, I have to let you go.”

“Couldn’t you have called me? Would’ve given me more hours in bed.” Feuilly laughed bitterly, but not at the old man.

“They told me yesterday. It was your salary, or a month behind on the taxes.”

The streets were quiet at this time of the day. Feuilly could even hear the gravel scraping under his shoes, and Nicholas’ difficult breathes. “You don’t have to pay me. I can work for you for free,” he blurted out after some time. “Help you keep the business.” This man hadn’t deserved to fall victim, but he did. And so would his whole family, full of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and the smallest children.

Nicholas huffed a laugh at that. “I’ve had Anna helping me out, and when the little Peter has grown up enough, he will come give me a hand as well.” He rubbed over his head, then stretched his arms out for Feuilly were to seek comfort. Feuilly accepted it, although it was an awkward position with the old man embracing him, who was much shorter than he was. “I’m so sorry, Feuilly.”

Feuilly had a hard time not to clamp himself onto Nicholas. “It’s okay.”

“You’re a clever boy. You can do so much more than working through trash all day long.”

If he hadn’t let go then, Feuilly was sure he would have bawled his eyes out in front of this man. He simply waved, and put on a smile. “We’ll see.”

Nicholas waved back, and turned around into his storehouse. Just before he was gone, Feuilly shouted “And what about my last paycheck?”

“Come this Friday, and I’ll have it ready for you.” And the door closed behind Nicholas. Feuilly stayed there by the gates for some time, observing the storehouse for one of the last times. He took a couple of steps back unto the streets, and walked the same path he had just come from.

There were three job applications he could come up with for now that might fit into the new holes of his schedule.

*

In the dark, Grantaire could only feel the mud he was lying on. Here he had learned what the dark really meant, really looked like. Darkness here had an deafening effect, that would touch all the senses to the point you would ask yourself if the sounds of the insects were made up by your own mind, so to have at least something for yourself. The muttering of his platoon were muted by this darkness, and became something so trivial that he couldn’t set his mind to it anymore.

It was so hot, even with the sun gone and low on the ground which had been indulged by shadows for the whole day, it was terrible. Grantaire’s face had passed the stage of dampness, and was now gushing in sweat. He wasn’t allowed to take his helmet off.

Mostly they kept silent, only Eddy was trying to make conversation with anyone. Grantaire presumed he was in the same position as him, close enough to him to almost touch his elbow. If the guy would touch him, then Grantaire was certain that he would scream from paranoia.

Eddy was saying something pointedly at him, but Grantaire couldn’t quite hear it. He was now fixed on the feeling of the mud pulling him in. There were stories of men drowning here, and Grantaire rather had someone shooting him than ending up like that.

Eddy kept talking, louder than the instructed whisper, and Grantaire’s clothes were itchy and wet, and Grantaire was counting the seconds until the sun would come up again.

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” It was at Eddy, from Grantaire’s other side, but it had shut up the others as well. They all listened for a moment, to pick out any displaced noise, ones that didn’t belong to the jungle. Grantaire had his heart thumping in his throat, his eyes staring widely into nothing. He knew everyone was doing the same

“Shit!”

There were feet running around them, and they had to stand up to make it to far away as soon as possible. The shooting started, but Grantaire was more scared of falling into a deep hole at this point. He couldn’t see for shit.

He bumped into someone in his haste, but he didn’t know whether this was friend or foe. It was his instinct to push the other man away. There was another shot, and it sounded so close to where he was standing. His breathing was ragged, even when all he had almost set no steps. He turned around himself, to prick up his ears in any direction and find a sign that would send him in the right direction.

There was a firm hand pulling him away from where he was standing, and Grantaire tried to struggle with all his might. “Get the fuck out of here!” His lieutenant pushed him towards the dark, not knowing who he had grabbed. Grantaire listened without thinking, because that was what he was supposed to do. Don’t think and run off into the dark.

As the mud dragged on his boots, making every step heavier, and the heat made him exhausted, Grantaire thought about how he wasn’t made for this. He was falling down, scraping his hands against some tree branch, which would hurt for the next days to come.

Only now, he felt for the first time like he was drowning.

He was drowning in sweat, in his clothes and bedsheets. Grantaire would think later about how he embarrassed himself by the moans that came out of his mouth. His chest was heaving up highly, too fast for his body to handle. With one more moan and his eyes screwed shut, Grantaire rolled over and threw up onto the floor.

“Holy shit, R.”

There were sounds of feet stumbling over the wooden floor, then cabinets being opened and water streaming. Bahorel came close to his curled up figure with a wet towel and a bucket. “I heard you screaming, but didn’t know ‘t was this bad.” He was rapid in pulling Grantaire up to sit straight against the wall that his bed was pushed against, and started cleaning his face. Grantaire still felt out of it, but had no energy to shove Bahorel off. He let him dap the sweat and puke off his face, and it was soothing. Bahorel let the towel rest against his pulse for some time, and he could breathe again.

“You… you shouldn’t be cleaning this shit.” Grantaire was already making a move to get out of bed, but Bahorel wouldn’t let him and pushed him back with ease.

“Nope, I got this. You better stay there, or else.” 

Grantaire had to laugh at that, but winced afterwards now that he could focus on more than breathing. He pushed the sheets to the foot of the bed, as they were strangling him. He hadn’t even started about the stench.

“Really, let me just-”

“Nothing some Ajax can’t do.” Bahorel petted him on his chest, before continuing with scrubbing the floor. Grantaire let him work in silence, trying to forget about what he had remembered tonight for now.

Bahorel was right. After he had dumped the cleaning product onto the wood with a gallon of water, the smell had disappeared, leaving a fresh breather this room hadn’t had in a long time. Bahorel returned with a glass of water after he had gone to the bathroom to rinse out the towel.

“Hey there, buddy. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Grantaire shook his head, and sank down into his bed to curl into himself again. The bed dipped behind him, and Bahorel massaged his shoulder.

“This fucking sucks.” His voice broke when he said it at last.

“It does.”

*

The door was heavy against Marius’ shoulder as he pushed himself into the small office building. It didn’t help that his arms were well filled with his bag of which the straps were malfunctioning – ripped off on the underside – and a stack of paper that he couldn’t fit in that bag. His fingers were cramping now, trying to not let any papers fall.

“Marius! We weren’t expecting you until this afternoon.” Marius looked at David as he passed by his desk. He felt a flush appearing on his cheeks at the other’s bewilderment, and searched for an empty desk to place his stuff on. The papers still succeeded in sliding all over the table he found, creating a chaos. First, he had to check his watch. He sighed in relief.

“I was called in to come earlier. They want me to help the new volunteer out. You heard from her already?” He started to pile the papers up in a haste, checking three times if they were in the right order. “Wow, it’s not busy, is it?” He commented hazily, still scrolling through the papers.

He heard the chairs of David creaking as he leaned back. “Yeah, it’s been pretty bad. I don’t understand why we got another volunteer, we’ve been practically in this state since last month.” Marius looked up to see what David was indicating, and this was the first time that he realised that the room was deserted.

“But the translation department is still getting enough work, so-”

“You’re just happily working your way through thousands of letters from worried moms. Your days are filled. Moms ain’t coming to the office, however.” David sounded disgruntled, and fair enough, because they were all putting in an effort here. It was hard to see less people coming in every day. He stood up, and walked to Marius. Leaning over his shoulder, David inspected the papers in Marius’ hands.

“What are these?”

“Courfeyrac- I’ve told about him before, right?” David hummed, gesturing for Marius to go. “Well, Courfeyrac’s in this activist group. They have this campaign to promote a counselling program that will help veterans apply to our funding. He asked me to be a kind of insight. Sounds kind of exciting, doesn’t it?” He imagined himself as a spy, although there was nothing secretive about the information he was passing through. Still, he felt a little proud by every piece of archiving he could send to the group.

“David, is there a chance you might know whether Marius has turned up yet? I’ve been waiting for him since-” Marie stopped in the midst of her sentence when her eyes set on Marius’ hunched figure. “I told you to come upstairs as soon as you arrived, didn’t I?”

Marius opened his bag to push the papers in, even if there was no place for them anymore. “I’m so sorry, Marie. I’ll go right now.”

“That won’t be necessary.” A gentle voice came from behind Marie, and then made her way into the front of the office. In Marius’ head, when she smiled at him, there was a small breeze blowing through her hair. Her blonde locks caught the sunrays the had finally come through the clouds and into the office. Marius had quickly take a grip on the desk or he would have been on the ground. Here before them stood a beautiful woman. He was simply mesmerized.

“Get a grip on yourself,” David whispered into his ear, and then jumped up to introduce himself to the new volunteer.

She took David’s hand, and shook it before even knowing his name. She was wondrous, so adventurous and new. “My name is Cosette Fauchelevent. Are you Marius?” Marius had never loved the sound of his name as much as he did now. They should play that on the radio, as it was music to his ears.

“Fauchelevent?” David asked after taking back his hand. “As in family of Mr. Fauchelevent?”

She nodded, smile still there on her face. “Adoptive daughter, to be exact.” Mr. Fauchelevent, the man who managed this office, came to Marius’ mind. He had to go through all the times that they had had to actually interact and if he had done something inappropriate in any of these times. What did Mr. Fauchelevent even think of him?

“Ah! We are happy to work with you. But I’m not Marius. I’m David, and you see the guy over here,” and David turned around to point at Marius. “He’s Marius.”

Marius had left his mouth wide open for the whole introduction, but came to senses again when Cosette glanced at him. Her smile was still there, now with her pearly white teeth showing. He pushed himself forward to her.

His hand was sweaty in hers, and he had to swallow through the dryness in his throat before he could speak. “That’s me, Marius Pontmercy! I… I’m supposed to lead you around?” He was shaking her hand far too long, and took it away too abruptly. She chuckled.

“Cosette. Pleasure meeting you. And I think that was the plan, yes?”

David had walked to Marie, and was giving him thumbs up behind Cosette’s back. Marius had a hard time focussing on something. Cosette was still so much to lay his eyes on.

“Let me show you, then.”

And to top it all off, Cosette lay her hand on his arm, waiting for him to show the way. They weren’t even out of the hallway yet, and Marius had to blurt it out.

“Do you like coffee?” 

*

There had been a shooting yesterday night. One armed man against an unarmed one, and the rest of the story was to be predicted. It had been an attack, and the victim died this morning in the hospital. Enjolras had been running around during the whole meeting, and Grantaire imagined that the rest of the day had been no different.

That there had been a killing? Not interesting, not worth it to worry about. The day there would be no reporting about shootings in the newspaper, then they had stopped with the newspapers.

That the attacker was a veteran? That made it a little more interesting for them.

Grantaire watched silently as all the other members were discussing how this would impact their campaign. “We will not let this be our fallback!” Enjolras had stated. “We have to make the people aware that this is exactly what happens when these people are left without anything, that the program is needed like never before.”

“Except that junks were scrapped from the VA list long ago,” Grantaire had altered. To his surprise, Enjolras had only put his hand to his chin. He was thinking about what Grantaire had said, and Grantaire felt himself relax a little more into his chair.

“A rehabilitation program should be included. Good thinking.” And the day that Enjolras would praise Grantaire, then Grantaire would be dead. That was what Enjolras would be praising him about: being dead. Grantaire didn’t open his mouth for the rest of the time.

It was after the meeting that Grantaire was woken up from the daze he had been in through half of it. Enjolras’ hand was on his shoulder, and he had squatted down to his level. He looked quite awkward, not really able to find what he was supposed to do. It made Grantaire smile

“Is there anything you need me for?”

“No, I just… wanted to make sure you were alright. And, walk me home?” Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up, at which Enjolras sighed. “Please?”

It was only a matter of finding Bahorel to say that he wouldn’t be walking home with him before they were outside the café. They started walking the opposite direction of Grantaire’s apartment, to the preserved part of downtown. Grantaire tried to observe his surroundings instead of anxiously waiting for Enjolras to talk about why he had to come with him tonight.

Grantaire didn’t know what he had expected, but when Enjolras finally talked he knew that he had been definitely thinking the wrong way. “Are you okay? You know, after…” He did a thing with his eyes to finish his sentence.

Enjolras thought Grantaire was able to fully understand where he was going with this. “What?” Grantaire’s voice quivered a bit, but Enjolras quickly helped him.

“The shooting. It was close to your apartment, right?”

If Grantaire had to be exact, it was about a block away from where Bahorel and he lived. He had been woken up by the series of shots, and he had cursed the man who was shooting for the rest of the night. It reminded Grantaire that he still had a hard time dealing.

“Nothing new, is it?” Grantaire sped up his walking, Enjolras falling behind him.

“No, and that’s the worst about it. We _should_ be scared, not used to it.” Enjolras jogged to him. “This is what we want to stop.”

Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “And what would you like to do?”

Enjolras took his arm to get his attention. His eyes were wide and determined, a mad image with his smile added to it. “I want to collect personal stories. The people don’t find anything of numbers, but if they get to know the vets personally, then they will listen.”

Grantaire feared what he was hinting towards. “And where are you getting the stories from? A story storage?” Enjolras’ smile only became bigger.

“You’re actually really funny. Did I ever say that?”

“What do you mean, ‘actually’? I’ve been joking around for the whole of the past year,” Grantaire rambled nervously.

“Wouldn’t that make a difference to all what you’ve ever said to me.”

Grantaire didn’t come back on that, because he didn’t know what Enjolras was trying to imply there. It would have been flirting if it weren’t Enjolras.

Enjolras stopped him somewhere on the corner of a crossroad. “We’re here.” And indeed, before them was the apartment building that Grantaire had visited numerous of times. Enjolras sounded somewhat surprised that they had arrived, as if he hadn’t expected them to come here this quick.

He turned to Grantaire once again. “What I meant to ask was if you’re still going to these friends to talk about the campaign?”

Enjolras looked hopeful, so who was Grantaire to deny him this. “Of course. I’ll do it as soon as possible.”

“I will hold you on that.”

Neither knew how to end this, and Grantaire started swinging his legs, looking at the lamppost beside them. Enjolras was staring at his feet.

“Well, see you.” Grantaire was about to turn around, but then Enjolras halted him.

“Wait, R,” and Grantaire waited in stiff anticipation for what would come next. “You’re not as bad as you always make yourself seem to be. You’re actually a good guy.” Enjolras ended with a nod, as if he had to check with himself if that was correct. “Goodnight.” And he ran to the door of his apartment building.

“What’s with the ‘actually’?” Grantaire muttered again. The rest of the way back home, he wasn’t able to wipe the smirk off his face.

*

There was a downpour tonight. Most of the group had fled home when the first drops were about to fall, but that didn’t include Jehan. His hair was already stringy and clamping to his face when they made the first steps outside. In the back of his mind, Jehan thought of how ridiculous he look now.

Courfeyrac was by his side, yelling about how he would escort Jehan home and protect him against all the dangers of the streets. They had stayed for a couple of more drinks, and Jehan saw it as a blessing as he was now alone with Courfeyrac’s arm around his waist.

“We should seek shelter,” Jehan giggled.

“Don’t roses need watering?”

“Are you calling me a rose?”

Courfeyrac didn’t answer him, only led him through the different alleyways until Jehan didn’t even know where they were. “We’re going to get lost,” he shrilled. They were already lost, if he were honest, but it would only be for some time. They would find a main road and recognise it as the streets they passed through every day.

He was filled with enjoyment, and couldn’t stop laughing as he skipped over the asphalt with Courfeyrac. Then, Courfeyrac stopped their tracks to lean against the wall of one of the tall buildings that were surrounding them. “Have to get my breath back. Just a moment.” He sounded destroyed, but was laughing in between the breathes. There was not a lot of light that came into the alleyway, but there was nothing needed to see that Courfeyrac was beautiful.

Jehan kind of fell against Courfeyrac, which wasn’t really what he was planning on, but it felt natural. It was intense to look straight into his eyes that were sparking of joy for a split of a second, before he leaned up to place his lips on Courfeyrac’s.

It was only a moment, and Courfeyrac’s hand even came to his jaw, which was so much that Jehan had to curl his fingers into the bricks to not explode. He pressed further against the other, and shivered when Courfeyrac made a movement to return.

The hand gently pushed him back. The let each other go, and Jehan wanted to ask what was wrong. But then he saw Courfeyrac’s sobered expression, and his heart dropped.

“What’s wrong?” He still dared to ask, because there was not a lot of light in here and maybe he had seen it wrong.

“I’m sorry, Jehan.” He scratched behind his head, trying to find the words. “If I have showed the wrong signals, but if this is what you feel like-”

“This is not what you want.” Jehan tried to comprehend the fact. The rain felt cold against his skin all of a sudden, and he knew that he would be romanticizing it in a couple of days. Now, he would grieve.

“Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re beautiful. You’re smart, and have more passion than anyone I’ve ever met,” he paused for a moment. “Don’t tell Enjolras I said that.”

“Well, aren’t I an idiot then?” Jehan choked out, bawling his fists beside him. Courfeyrac let him be for a moment.

“Your heart has so much love to give, and it would be wasted on me,” Courfeyrac said at last. He was still a little drunk, as he had to drag himself through the words.

The worst of it all was that Jehan had taken so much comfort from this. He loved to love, and had told himself that he was content enough to love. This wasn’t ever what he was planning for, because now he had to return home alone and accept that he would be alone for a longer time.

“Can I be angry with you, at least?” Jehan sniffled, putting his arms around himself. He wanted to hate everything about Courfeyrac right now, so he could convince himself that it wasn’t worth the sad feelings.

Courfeyrac had it in himself to smile softly. “Of course. Yell at me all you want. You can even hit me.”

“It’s no fucking fun if you’re all kind about it!” Jehan cried while he threw the first punch at him. There was no power behind it, and only blew Courfeyrac against the bricks a little. He kept swatting at his chest for some time, before leaving his hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and wailing quietly.

Courfeyrac brought his arms under Jehan’s armpits. “Should I bring you home?”

Jehan shook his head heavily against his chest. “Just take me to the fucking main street.” And they walked arm in arm back to their homes, where Jehan would finally confront himself.

He was extremely lonely.

*

In another part of the town, the rain was hitting the window with aggression just after midnight. Musichetta was distracted from the kettle she had put on the stove by the sudden dripping sound. She turned the pit lower, so she could listen to where the source was. There was stumbling in the living room, and she narrowed her eyes before leaving the kitchen to see for herself.

There was nobody around when she got there, but the dripping had gotten louder. In the right corner of the ceiling, Musichetta saw the darkened plaster. She sighed and put her hands at her hips when she came closer to inspect the ceiling. Water was dripping from there onto their wooden floor. They had a leak again. 

“Step aside, quickly!” Joly ran in with a bucket that they kept in their small bathroom. Amused, she made way for him so he could put the bucket under the drip. His whole body relaxed when he had done so.

“At least it’s not above the fridge this time.” Bossuet stood just outside the hallway, arms crossed while he looked up at the same spot as the other two. They all looked at it for some time, anxious for any cracks to start appearing in the ceiling. It would be expensive to let that be fixed.

“I’ll grab a towel,” Musichetta said with much dismay, and went to the bathroom.

She heard Joly’s voice through the hallway. “I swear! When I become a surgeon and I get my first salary, I’ll buy us a new house.” There was Bossuet’s bellowing laugh, and it was so infectious that Musichetta was grinning against the doors of the cabinets.

“Then buy me a front yard too,” she shouted back. The cabinet where they put their towels was empty, and it only took one look at the pile in the corner of the bathroom to find out where they were. Musichetta let her head fall for a moment, and then decided that the floor wouldn’t mind a dirty towel. “And when you’re at it, more towels please.” She took a yellow one from the pile, before returning to the guys.

Bossuet pouted at the sight of the wrinkled towel. “Didn’t we do laundry this week?”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” Musichetta winced. “I had no time to walk to the laundromat, and I kinda forgot to ask you.”

“Like I said, when I get that stinky doctor’s money, I will buy us our own washing machine.” Joly put a fist in the air as Musichetta dropped to the floor to dab the water off the floor. “I’ll let a new house be built for just the three of us, with the best isolation, so we know that there won’t be any leakages.”

“And no cold Winters,” Bossuet added.

“With a thousand air conditioners for the Summers!”

Joly was standing on the couch. “We will never suffer again! There will be a kitchen greater than this whole apartment, like those French ones.”

“Get a bigger bed than the shit one we have now.” Bossuet tried to climb the couch as well, but almost slipped without Joly holding him upright.

“Be careful there, dear,” Musichetta tutted. A high whistle from the kettle then reached the living room. The other two kept fantasising about this dreamy picture of their future house, while she got the kettle off the stove and grabbed three cups. She silently thought about how they would have the most beautiful porcelain to fill their cabinets when they got that house. At least she was hoping for more than four chipped mugs.

The smell of tea leaves carried through the kitchen as she let them soak in the hot water that she had poured into the cups. Back in the living room, Musichetta was met by Joly and Bossuet curled up on their couch, waiting for her.

“We’ll also get a coffee table,” she mused while she sat the cups down on the floor before them. She sank into the couch next to Joly, and put an arm around him, waiting for their tea to cool down.

*

Grantaire couldn’t be the guy that didn’t take his chances when they were presented to him. He didn’t know what he would tell Enjolras otherwise. It was in the afternoon when he was strolling around the shopping streets, when he suddenly noticed a familiar face among the crowd. So what he did was find that face again.

He apologised to everyone that he bumped into in his haste, jumping slightly to look over the tops of the heads. He deemed himself not crazy when he spotted the face once more, now much closer. It only took a few seconds more before Grantaire was able to take a hold of the man’s shoulder.

The man that he had recognised turned around in a sharp motion, his face livid so close to madness, but then he saw who had stopped him. The last doubt fled his body, as Grantaire was now entirely sure that he had run into one of his old platoon mates. He would have been able to pick that manner of sauntering that Montparnasse always had had out of a thousand men.

“R, I thought I would never see you again.” His laugh was thin, and he clapped Grantaire on his back. It got him to lead Grantaire out of the crowd. They stopped at a crossing just outside of the shopping centre, where they didn’t have to worry of holding up any people. “How’ve you been?” He asked, but he wasn’t focussing on Grantaire. He was looking around them, and he was playing with the front pocket of his jeans. Had he been like this the last time Grantaire had seen him?

“A year went by, and that’s all I can say.” The fumbling of the other’s hands was distracting Grantaire now, making him nervous. Still, Montparnasse showed nothing but a relaxed coolness on his face. It was as if he was entirely detached from everything, like he had actually always been, if Grantaire remembered correctly.

“Same for me. Still can’t say that I’m happy to have returned to this shitshow.” He vaguely gestured at the street before them, and then finally took out the pack of cigarettes that had been in that front pocket. He offered Grantaire while he was already flicking the lighter, but he declined with a weak smile. He wasn’t planning on staying here for long.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” Grantaire asked, staring at his feet. He heard Montparnasse snort next to him.

“What do you want, R?” So he was still as sharp minded as he had been. It was a good sign, Grantaire thought, as it meant that he wouldn’t be dealing with someone too adrift to follow his story. He had seen it with his friend before he had ended it all. His eyes had been glazed over.

“I see that peace hasn’t made you soft enough for a little chitchat.”

“I’ll kill myself before that happens.” Montparnasse blew out the smoke through his nose, then looked at him from under his eyebrows. “Let’s say God has brought us together again, because you need me for something. He tends to send people my way when they are in need a lot these days.”

Grantaire couldn’t escape under the gaze of this man, and he swallowed. “It’s my friends. They want to get these real-time vets stories. You see, they’re running a campaign-”

“Okay, stop just there.” Montparnass waved with hands to stop Grantaire, causing the ash of his cigarette to fly around. “You fucking got into an activist group?” He started laughing, as if he couldn’t believe it. Grantaire wouldn’t either.

He stepped closer to him. “Yes, and so what if I did? It’s not the point.”

“It’s the whole point actually, I can tell you that.”

Grantaire chose to ignore him, and took a deep breath. “I promised them, okay? That I’d provide them of the vets perspectives on the VA failings of funding. You care about money too, don’t you?” He stared at him vividly, but was left feeling humiliating when Montparnasse started laughing again.

“Are you done now?”

“Do you even believe yourself saying that?” He pinked away a tear, and let his cigarette fall onto the pavement. “That’s ridiculous, buddy.”

“Hey, I think there’s nothing wrong with wanting to help out a little bit. Get back to the community and such.” He wouldn’t let the embarrassment show on his face as he kept staring at Montparnasse.

“Is that so? Then why’s it so that you’re not offering yourself?” Grantaire hated himself that he was taken aback by what Montparnasse was pointing out. The man rolled his eyes at Grantaire’s pursed mouth.

“I never said that I wouldn’t be in it.”

Montparnasse was looking like he had him all figured out. He gave the last stamp to the cigarette to kill the fire. “But you can’t say ‘us’. All you’re saying is ‘them’ and ‘my friends’.”

Grantaire couldn’t find an answer to that. “Already thought so. You come running to me, though you know damn well yourself that this has been a lost cause for a long time.”

“Things can change,” Grantaire defended.

“Try to say that after going back to that office. I was there with you, remember?” Montparnasse seemed to have lost his interest in this conversation, again letting his eyes draw to anything that was passing by. It really unsettled Grantaire.

“Aren’t you just fucking cowering away too?” He sneered, and Montparnasse was in his space in a second. He looked cold, aggressive. It was that Grantaire got to take a good look at him for the first time now. His pupils were dilated, and that was what really terrified Grantaire. He was tripping.

“You don’t get to say a _fucking_ thing about how I live my life, R.” His nose was flaring, and his hands were so close to gripping Grantaire. “I’m not going back to that life. It’s over.”

Grantaire took a shaky breath, trying to look unaffected. “Hey, we were also thinking of starting a rehab program,” he dared to say. He got spat in the face for it.

“Good luck finding your damn stories like that. Everyone will be laughing at you.” Montparnasse gave him one more look, but Grantaire didn’t give a kick. He was not even moving to wipe off the spit. “Let me say this: Why go back to the ones who chose to stab us in the back?”

Grantaire was left alone after that. He watched the figure drift away, disappearing into the crowd again.

In a few minutes time, it all came to him. Grantaire pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, also to muffle his anticipated screams.

He didn’t know who he was supposed to hate more: Montparnasse or Enjolras.

*

Grantaire had turned up to his door when Feuilly was out of the house for his night shift. Jehan was still in the sullen phase of mourning, and it didn’t get any better with how twisted Grantaire looked there at his doorstep.

“Let’s get high,” Jehan had said then, and let him in afterwards.

There was only a sip of tea left in both cups, now. Jehan hadn’t asked Grantaire anything when he put the kettle on the pit (“You want to make it a tea party?”), so he knew he wouldn’t have to tell anything in return.

They were rolling over the floor, still haven’t talked about anything. It didn’t matter at the moment, as they tangled their arms together and laughed as if it was the best joke they had ever heard. It was a world of difference, and a real good one, from the way Jehan had been feeling these last couple of days. The lump in his throat had disappeared for now.

“I want to dance.” Jehan stood up abruptly, wandering to the record player that was propped upon a small side table. “I’ve only got Swing,” he said dazed while he looked through his sparse collection. Most of the records had scratches on them, but that was what the connoisseurs were calling authentic.

Grantaire groaned turned on his other side. “And here I thought you were more of the Bop kind.” He stared at Jehan through his drooping eyes, and Jehan had to only look at him for a moment before starting to giggle.

“It’s not kicking in, Jehan.”

“But it is.” Jehan took a record from its cover, and put it with utter care on the player. He heard the first scratches when he put the needle down.

The rapid rhythm filled the apartment, and Jehan put his hands up to feel the music. “Come on, R. Dance with me.” He took Grantaire’s wrists to haul him up. “I don’t really wanna,” he whined, but let Jehan have his way with him anyway.

They swung around each other, and Grantaire even helped him do his little twirl. They danced around the room, stumbling over the empty cups, toppling them over. They stepped on each other’s toes, took each other in their arms. It all served this lightness that Jehan had missed.

“Now kiss me,” Jehan whispered when they were so close that he could feel Grantaire’s breath on his face. Grantaire looked at him confused, trying to figure out if there was something wrong with that.

“Okay,” he then said, and he leaned in with his hands on Jehan’s waist. They shared soft kisses, and Jehan started to wonder if this had happened in the alleyway too, how he would be feeling now. It would have been the same, he assumed, as he was kissing just another wonderful friend right now.

“No…” Grantaire left Jehan’s lips. “I think I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Even through the thick fog that numbed his feelings, Jehan felt his throat tightening. “What do you mean?”

“I love someone else, Jehan.” Grantaire shook his head. “I can’t give you kisses of love.”

“I don’t care,” Jehan said curtly, and pulled Grantaire in again. They fell into the big armchair they had, sucking and gasping into each other’s mouths. He tried to set his mind to Grantaire, only focusing on Grantaire and how his tongue was licking at his lips. He was still left frowning.

Jehan pulled away this time. He took Grantaire’s face between his hands while they took ragged breaths. “Do you love me?” he asked.

Grantaire started laughing. “There’s no one else in this whole entire world I’d rather do mushrooms with. Of course I do.”

Jehan let his face fall on Grantaire’s shoulder, hiding his face deeply into his shirt. “Thank you,” he cried.

*

His throat was still dry by the time he stood in front of the café the next evening. Jehan had kept him until this morning, and it only came to Grantaire when he had to leave for the meeting, that he had been blessed with distraction until now. He already arrived twenty minutes late, and had been fumbling in front of the entrance for five more.

Pushing himself to the earnest, Grantaire grabbed the handle with stiff fingers, and stepped inside. There were people looking up when he walked past them, including Enjolras. Grantaire was drawn to him, even when he didn’t want to, and gave Enjolras a quick glance. Enjolras had seen him, nodded in acknowledgement, and turned his lips in a small smile.

Grantaire searched for a place in the far back. He held his face low, and watched the smaller groups working from his seat. Even though there was a calm that came with being the observer, as he found himself being distracted again, it were the rare occasions that Enjolras’ eyes met his that sent little shocks down his spine. He was on the edge of his seat the whole time, not daring to close his eyes for a second. In the backroom, there were already visitors dancing, something that always put a light frown on Enjolras’ face while he tried to keep up his speaking. Grantaire saw tension in his hands, and he heard him speeding up. He was in a hurry, but for what?

This evening had most of them strung up. There was an air around them that made Grantaire feel like everyone was on their toes. Drinks came in through half of the meeting, which usually was pushed back until almost the end. Jehan threw a concerned look his way when he accepted a beer that was handed out, and Grantaire pointed up one finger. When Jehan didn’t turn around yet, Grantiare noticed that he had been rapidly tapping his foot against the floor. He pushed it to a stop with his hand on his knee.

Instead his heartbeat began to raise as he watched outside. The sun had set, which meant it was almost the end of the meeting. And he had promised to himself that he would talk with Enjolras after the meeting. In his ears, Enjolras was only hurrying through the lines more, which did nothing to help him.

His bottle was empty by the time Enjolras approached him. There was a sudden sense of Déjà vu that made Grantaire feel the urge to say that yes, he would get out this week to find his friends and ask them. Only then the distraction was gone. Enjolras hadn’t gone down on his knees, but was now looking down at Grantaire. He was waiting for Grantaire reporting.

“Did you meet your friends yet?” Enjolras was swinging on his heel. All Grantaire could do was stare up and give him a weak smile.

“Bet you, I did.”

“Great! Okay, yeah.” Grantaire had to avert his eyes once again, as he couldn’t deal with Enjolras trying to restrain his excitement. It was obvious: there was a thousand miles gap between the two worlds they were living in right now. Grantaire stood up, so he didn’t have to let Enjolras actually look down at him. He scratched over his head, reluctant to what had to be said.

“Hey, look. I think I’m going to take a step back from this.”

This was what showed that Enjolras cared too much. He had popped up that same frown that he used for the dancers again. But he wasn’t on the same line as Grantaire yet, and so assumptions were made, and Grantaire would have to explain.

“Did something happen? You said you met up with your friends? Did they say anything?” Enjolras recited in quickly, quietly. There was only no chance for Grantaire to enjoy this sense of intimacy. “Did you tell them about the campaign?” He added.

Grantaire must have looked pained, as Enjolras came even closer. His hand was held, and Grantaire thought it was sweet. “No, nothing happened,” he got out. How to approach this? “Stop looking at me like that.” He tried to make it a friendly jab, but it seemed to make Enjolras start to worry.

“Looking like what?”

“Like,” Grantaire gestured to his face as if that described it. “like you think they’ve done something bad to me.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened. “Did they?”

“No! No, I was trying to get rid of that whole mis consumption.” 

“Well, you’re clearly upset about something.” Enjolras wasn’t going to let it go now. 

The rest of the group were sharing drinks now, filling up the room with their loud conversing. Grantaire was again distracted for a moment by the sight over Enjolras’ shoulder. He then sighed, and tried not to look too defeated. “It didn’t work out.”

There was confusion again in Enjolras’ eyes. “What do you mean?”

It wasn’t so hard, Grantaire thought, but Enjolras managed to get him so worked up over this. “Don’t you understand? It’s you plan,” he almost snapped at Enjolras. He closed his eyes for a second, to get himself into control. “I’ve done as you said. I went to my friend, told him about your whole idea-”

“It wasn’t exactly my idea, R. Do I have to remind you that it was you who offered to get insight intel?” Enjolras interrupted him, and Grantaire couldn’t have it anymore.

“Okay, fine. I told him about this whole thing, and he said it wasn’t going to happen.” He pressed his lips together when he was done. Enjolras was thinking deeply, and Grantaire got the urge to shake it into his thick skull that he had to accept it. That wasn’t the way Enjolras would let it end, however.

“You were talking about multiple friends. You just got to ask another,” he said after a while, and didn’t Grantaire hate how he kept his determined demeanour.

“God damn- You weren’t there, Enjolras. I’m not about to anger more of my friends by pushing them into this… this movement, just because you want them to.”

“I’m not forcing anyone.” Enjolras heaved his head sharply. It made Grantaire scoff.

“How do you call this, then?” 

There was moment that Grantaire was scared that Enjolras would hit him. The sudden fury certainly hinted to that, but Enjolras held himself back.

“We need to talk.” He then turned around sharply and walked towards the entrance, expecting Grantaire to follow him.

“Oh, but I swore we were doing that already? My bad.” His sarcastic jab almost gave him a door to his nose.

Enjolras made a frustrated noise when he turned back to Grantaire, his shoes stomping against the pavement. “Can’t you just shut up?”

“Last time I checked, talking requires at least two-”

“What’s wrong with you?!” Enjolras’ leap to him made him startle back. “Why do you always cower from one small fallback?” His words were dragged out, like he wanted to be sure Grantaire understood the importance. It made him feel like a little kid again.

“Can we keep it at that I just know that this will be the same with any of them?”

“But you didn’t even _try_.”

“You weren’t there, Enjolras. I have to admit that it was so fucking humiliating to have to kind of pep talk these people.” He remembered Montparnasse’s immediate recline, the disgust that showed on his face when Grantaire only mentioned the VA. “They don’t see it anymore, and want to live their life in peace. The best thing we can do for them is not bothering them.”

It made Enjolras stop his aggression to think for a moment. Then, he snapped up again like he had seen the light. “You’re unbelievable.” He laughed in a hollered way.

Grantaire couldn’t follow it all, and he had to remind himself later to ask Jehan if he could still be on a trip. He was convinced the acids were still having their way with his brain. “Elaborate,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You were always holding onto this idea that they wouldn’t want us, or the VA. You were convinced from the start that this wasn’t going to work, because God knows you’d actually make an effort for once.” He was sneering, but what drove Grantaire right into anger was that Enjolras looked so sure that he was right. Enjolras had never believed he was going to succeed.

“Fuck you,” he bit back, because what else was there to say to get Enjolras down? He was tired of this, and his brain was telling him _no more_. “You don’t know anything.”

“You can’t just speak for them, Grantaire. You come with these assumptions, and what are they even all about?”

“As if you don’t do the exact same-”

Enjolras ignored him. “You don’t even try to get to know these people! Why do you think you have the right to know what they think? All you ever do is _degrade_ them, look down at them as if all they have is a miserable life to live until they will eventually kill themselves!”

Grantaire hadn’t seen it coming, but neither had Enjolras. And maybe that was why it felt so good to see the shock after Grantaire collapsed his fist against Enjolras’ cheek. His knuckles stinged, but the image of Enjolras stumbling to the ground was enough of a satisfaction to counter it. Enjolras held his hand against the spot, already puffing up.

“I have fought too!” Grantaire’s throat hurt from how he was shouting at the top of his lungs. “I’ve seen it all! I am them!” He cursed loudly, and was close to give a last kick to Enjolras’ body, but was stopped by the realisation that was already downing upon Enjolras’ face.

They were silent, only hearing his own heavy breathes, and the continuing conversations from inside that hadn’t stopped on their accord. Grantaire figured them finding out soon enough, as Enjolras’ cheek would have coloured a deep purple by then. Everyone would know by next week, and Grantaire wouldn’t even be able to properly say goodbye.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Enjolras asked quietly. There was no winching that showed that he was in pain. Enjolras was focussed on him entirely. That he didn’t make a move to lash out as well, was what made Grantaire feel slightly guilty.

“Because anyone would fucking know that I wouldn’t be able to ever look you into the eye again.” He begged to be let go with these words. He was done with it, and would never show up to this café again. Years of building a defence to everything he had seen, and then a year of not speaking of it, pretending it was not there, came crashing down with that one look of sympathy that Enjolras was trying to give. “I don’t need your help,” he choked out, shaking his head wildly.

There had been a boy, keeping his body low to the ground as Enjolras was doing now. He had had his knees tugged towards him, to protect himself from Grantaire. Yet he hadn’t done anything to escape, maybe because his body was going through shock. He saw the boy in Enjolras, so he wondered. Was Enjolras also scared of him?

Grantaire swore he would have let him go if he had tried to run away. But the only movement the boy had been able to make was grip his pathetic excuse of a revolver before pointing it towards him. It had been a threat, so Grantaire had no choice.

And now he had to live with that every day. What would Enjolras think of him if he knew?

“Grantaire…”

He started running before Enjolras had the chance to stand up.

*

Washington had never been home to him, as he had grown up at the total edge of the city, not even the suburbs. The only memories he had of the city itself were his elementary school years. So, it was no surprise when he found himself yet again in Washington after the war with no feeling of returning.

Grantaire had spent his first days in the city on benches in parks, because it was still Summer, and the temperature wouldn’t cause him any harm. He had told himself that he was on his way figuring it all out, and it was in this period that he went looking for a job. This was his first setback, realising that he had no degree and wasn’t able to work in the real world.

At first, he had been stunned by the pace that everyone around him was taking in moving on from this era that he had only just left. In his head, he was still in Vietnam, like on that first day. Easily impressed by the new world surrounding him.

He had learned the hard way from how people saw him once they knew who he had been the last years. It was a too insightful eye on his hands, or the wind whipping up his hair, and people were taking a step back from him. He couldn’t find a job at that time.

He had started blaming everything on the war then. It had ruined him, and he had had no medal to show for it. There was a pin of honour for every private who had made it alive, but who cared? The people who viewed his resume certainly didn’t.

He had gone from shelter to shelter, had a hard time turning up to get his food stamps because of his damn pride, and then there was the VA.

His father had left him nothing after he had passed away. Grantaire had been born late into his parents lives, and the man had already turned 65 when he had been drafted. That had also been the only time he had seen his dad proud of him, when he got the letter in the mail. He was told that his father had suffered from a stroke.

At the VA office he was told he wouldn’t be able to make it into community college with only the funding they were able to offer him. “Why pretend to have a funding, then?”

The woman at the office had shrugged, and smiled as an apology. “I’m sorry, darling.”

He then realised that he had no chances to figure it out at all.

It was then on a sunny midday that Grantaire had seen him for the first time. The only possessions he was able to bring with him to every new shelter every other night were a pencil and a sketchbook. He had been sitting on the stairs of the square, sketching the Capitol building for the umptieth time, when he was distracted by a ruckus somewhere down the square.

He had looked up from his papers, and there in the middle of the square, there was an uproar of a rally going on. Grantaire hadn’t known then what they were protesting. He had figured it would be the Cold War, for freeing the Republic of China, or against atomic fear. Against the Red Scare and all. He wouldn’t have cared about any of them.

Yet, he had still put his pencil in his back pocket and closed his sketchbook. With an easy stride, he had walked to the increasing crowd. He had grinned in a moment of amusement. They were anti-war protesters, the people who believed they had stopped a war entirely by their own doing. He had stood back to observe them from a distance, but soon enough his attention was drawn to the man who climbed the makeshift stage that some others had been busy building for him just now. It was made from empty beer crates and wooden panels.

He had only seen his back, which was nothing out of the ordinary. His hair had been longer then, plastering against his neck in the Summer sun. And then, he started to speak.

Grantaire had been left open-mouthed by this stranger who had spoken of things he couldn’t quite remember. But it had made him stay behind, and then also a little longer.

The man had turned around to address everyone, and that had been a new revelation for Grantaire. He had kept listening, and then stayed for over a year. He had to see every expression that man, Enjolras, could make. He had to indulge in his voice like people would do with the freeing jazz. Enjolras had come as his guardian, Grantaire had convinced himself of it. He had finally been saved.

He even started looking for a job again.

*

Courfeyrac rubbed his forehead. He had his legs crossed as he lounged on the terrace of the café Combeferre had chosen to get coffee at. He had never been there, and het let Combeferre go inside alone, so he could claim them a perfect spot. “Just get me anything,” he had told Combeferre.

“Hope it’ll be to your liking,” Combeferre joked when he held out a cup of coffee in front of Courfeyrac. He took it in his hands, so Combeferre could make himself comfortable in his chair.

“This is just a plain coffee.” Courfeyrac turned the cup in his hand, seeing if there was something special about it yet to be discovered. He looked up when Combeferre handed him a milk cup with a toothy grin. “You could have gone for something more adventurous,” he pouted, but took the cup anyway.

“Yeah, and then I would have gone for a cappuccino, and you would’ve hated it because it doesn’t taste like the cappuccinos you know. Do you know how picky you are?” Courfeyrac snorted, hiding his blush behind his cup. They sat in the shades, watching the pedestrians that passed the café idly. Combeferre had a talent in doing that, setting his eyes onto something without losing focus for a long time. Courfeyrac already felt himself twitching in his seat after three minutes.

“Are you alright?” Combeferre didn’t take his eyes of the street when he suddenly broke the silence. He had this seriousness to him that said that his attention was with Courfeyrac, however.

The question had taken Courfeyrac aback, and he heaved up his eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

Combeferre took a sip from his coffee, still turned to the side. “You’ve been sullen for some time, and it’s not like the mood swings you bring upon us. It’s constant.”

“You say that like it’s my fault that my mood can fluctuate that greatly.” Courfeyrac acted hurt. Combeferre’s lips turned up at that, and he finally turned to him.

“That wasn’t the point,” he chuckled. “Did something happen?”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to argue that he hadn’t been looking sullen at all, but Combeferre was looking a little troubled right now, his brows knitted together. He was also opening his arms for him, asking him silently to trust him.

“Jehan kissed me,” he answered dazed, not sure if he was supposed to tell. To his surprise, Combeferre didn’t seem shocked about it. His frown turned into sad realisation, and Combeferre used to be so hard to read. This was still complex, because what had saddened him was a mystery. “I had to reject him,” he added, suddenly curious how Combeferre would take the rest of the story.

Combeferre yelped when he had to save the cup falling from his grip. Coffee splashed over his hands and the front of his shirt. He gave it an attempt to dab it clean with the napkins, but gave a frustrated sigh before giving up. Then, he faced Courfeyrac with confusion. “Oh.”

“I had expected some more drama, Ferre.” Courfeyrac huffed.

“What did you say to him?” Combeferre’s tone was desperate, and it put Courfeyrac off a little. He hadn’t meant for this to be an interrogation, but now he wanted to know what Combeferre thought of this.

“I don’t know. I was drunk, so probably some senseless shit.” He spared him the whole messy dialogue that had occurred.

“Was it because of his love for a man?” Combeferre pushed on.

Courfeyrac shook his head heavily. “No, never. I wouldn’t have rejected him for the fact that he is a man.” His throat felt dry, because he would die from curiosity if he wouldn’t learn about Combeferre’s thoughts. He was sure of it. “Would you?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They had never talked about this. Courfeyrac had never talked to anybody about this. All he knew was that if he told his parents, he would be condemned to never having to show up on their doorstep anymore.

They both stayed silent, processing what this all meant to them. For Courfeyrac, it was a new possibility that he might only realise now that he had wanted for a long time.

“I told him that his love would be wasted on me,” he confessed. “There are so many people that would have deserved his love more, or love in general, than me.”

“That’s not true!” Combeferre almost jumped out of his chair, and then immediately collected himself again. “You’re a blessing to anyone, Courfeyrac. You know how to be a joy to every single person, you come with energy, and only ever bring kindness.” Combeferre had to take a breath after that, his whole body strung up now losing all its energy. “Anyone would be so lucky to only even get the chance to love you.”

Courfeyrac didn’t really know what to say to that. It was a lot, as he had not lied when he had said that he had given up on love. But here was Combeferre, sitting in front of him, a coffee stain on his shirt, and waiting stiffly for his respond. He couldn’t quite belief it.

“Would you feel like that?” He tried.

Combeferre nodded. “Of course.”

Of course, he had said. Courfeyrac felt his chest burst at the certainty.

“Marry me, then.”

Combeferre looked stunned, but not shocked. He looked down at the table to find his cup half full in front of him. He took another sip, and set it down again. Courfeyrac felt his fingers go numb under his grip on the sides of his chair.

Combeferre licked his lips, and opened his mouth. Then he looked at Courfeyrac again. “Yes, okay.”

Courfeyrac breathed out, and fell back in his chair. He felt motionless, now all the tension had left his body. He put his face in his hands, thinking about what he had said and what Combeferre had said and what he had gotten himself into. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning, hiding it under his hands. Combeferre was still waiting patiently for him at the other side of the table.

“Alright.”

*

“That fucker should have gone off of his high horse, it’s not my fault!”

Feuilly huffed, looking up at the night sky they had just been pushed under. Bahorel cursed and started walking down the street, taking the cigarette behind his ear. There was no way that man was going to make it home in this state, so Feuilly followed him.

“You’re the shitbag who got us kicked out, though.” He had jogged up to Bahorel now, who was already breathing out the first smoke. “And I was really enjoying myself there.” Feuilly looked straight ahead, not feeling up to dwelling over this. And he would, if he had to look at Bahorel the whole way home.

“I’m sorry.” Bahorel actually sounded guilty, which brough Feuilly a little joy. This man was able to shout down a gun-wearing guy with no shame to anything he would say, but would apologize for ruining Feuilly’s free night. “I really wanted to make this good for you, man.”

Feuilly hummed, his mushed brain not able to think of an answer. Maybe this had been a good time to leave, as he wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed in the morning for his work. At this point, he couldn’t afford losing another job.

“I tell you, until you get your job back, I’ll pay for all your drinks.”

Feuilly snorted, and almost stumbled over his own feet. “You’d be just as broke as me if you gave me that freedom.”

Feuilly was free now every Friday and Sunday night, and he would drink himself silly and maybe argue with a guy at the bar himself. He didn’t want to owe him any money.

“What’s on your mind, bud?” Feuilly looked at Bahorel now, and then realised that his eyes were almost closing while they had been walking. He felt exhausted, and it must show on his face. Even though he had relatively less work, it came with more stress. He couldn’t sleep or rest his head for a second.

“Jehan has been paying my half of the rent as well. Said that I should give it a rest, and save up the rest of my earnings.” He swallowed, frustrated by the thought of his roommate. “I fucking hate being in his dept. And you know what he said when I told him that?”

Bahorel shrugged.

“That he wouldn’t see this as dept, that I wouldn’t owe him anything.” Feuilly’s laugh roared through the street. It had angered him, but he couldn’t deny his friend then. Jehan only ever wanted to do good, just like Feuilly always had wanted. Only had Feuilly not the supplies to do so, and Jehan did.

“How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him around in some time.”

“Could ask the same about yours.”

Bahorel barked out a laugh, and bumped Feuilly’s shoulder. “All I can say is that I’m keeping the boy busy. He goes to his job regularly now, does the laundry even.” Feuilly didn’t ask if he knew why Enjolras had sported a massive black-eye after his conversation with Grantaire.

“Jehan’s been working on a personal project, or that’s what he told me. Got this big boom of inspiration, and rarely leaves his room anymore.” It was getting better now, as Jehan could be found on the ground at dawn again.

“Well, that explains why you look so fucking sad all the time,” Bahorel teased. Feuilly pushed his hands in his pockets, trying to look defensive.

“As if you’d know,” he murmured.

“Oh, but I do. You’ve got a soft spot for our little ginger.” Feuilly immediately pushed against Bahorel, but the man wouldn’t budge. “Just telling you what I see.”

“Well, _fuck you_.” He wrapped his arms around Bahorel’s neck to drag him down, but was pulled up instead. He threw fists at his friend, because yes, he had upset him. Feuilly would be the last to admit it, and felt quite annoyed at himself now, but he was angry. He had no money and Jehan didn’t want to tell what was going on. There was something else than that project that made him sit hunched in front of the window, but God forbid he would actually help Feuilly from his worries and tell him. He was a shy boy, and hid behind it. And Feuilly was worried sick about him.

“Yeah! Fuck me. Fuck this!” Bahorel was enjoying himself to no end, running onto the empty road. He threw his arms open with Feuilly still on his back. Had he been more careful, Bahorel could have hold on better to his cigarette. There, the thing flew through the air for a moment, and then landed. The lonesome parked car was close enough to them that the heat almost blew them over when the flames burst out.

“Holy _fuck_!” Feuilly jumped off Bahorel’s back and dragged his amazed friend away from the street in a haste. On the pavement, they could still feel the warmth from the car that was lost in the flames. “What did you do?!” He threw Bahorel a crazed look, but his friend was still looking at the fire with wonder.

“Do you think it’ll explode?”

Feuilly wanted to yell at him for being a lunatic, but then there was something that came to him. He turned to the flames again. He felt the air that came from it blowing through his hair, and the smoke hurt his eyes. He then thought about the owner who would realise at some point that their car had been ruined beyond repair, and then the police would come and find nothing. He thought that things like this tended to happen, like how he lost his job, and that there was nothing to be done about.

“You know, you’re right,” he said softly. “Fuck this.”

*

Grantaire heard the front door open. He was busy on the balcony, leaning over the fence to reach the clotheslines, picking up the socks and underwear that had dried under the sun. “You better tell me where you’ve been. I couldn’t sleep worrying about you, asshole,” Grantaire mocked, but when he turned around, Bahorel wasn’t the one who was standing in the entryway to the balcony. Grantaire’s smile fell when he noticed Enjolras’ black eye. It was more purple and yellow now, but was still pushing up the underlid by the puffiness.

“You’re not Bahorel.”

“I’d be concerned, but I already saw Bahorel this morning at Feuilly’s. He actually gave me the keys.” Enjolras awkwardly held up the ring with keys, which indeed belonged to Bahorel. “He told me not to get another black eye.”

Grantaire averted his eyes, and leaned against the fence. It had been two weeks, and Grantaire still had a lump in his throat appear with everything that had to do with this man. “Good to know he’s alright.”

Enjolras said nothing. They kept their distant, and it drove Grantaire more to the edge than actually looking at the guy. How this man got into the idea of leading society when he couldn’t even hold a normal conversation, that was beyond him. He was about to tell Enjolras that he had laundry to do, that his time was wasted like this, when Enjolras finally spoke up.

“So, he knows?”

Grantaire felt Enjolras stare at him, and he had to close his eyes. “Why’d you that?”

“He didn’t sound too much against the idea of me getting another one like this.” Enjolras chuckled, and Grantaire imagined him pointing at his eye. “He was protective.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.” Grantaire pushed himself off the fence and grabbed the laundry basket from the tiles, starting to pick up socks again. “Why are you here?”

He heard Enjolras breath behind him, which made him twitch, ready to push him away if he came any closer. Grantaire knew he actually would never do that again, hit him. He had hated himself even more after that incident.

“I wanted to apologize.” Enjolras had that power over him to make him turn around, losing all control over his body. On any other day, Grantaire would have been amused by the way Enjolras stood. He was in utter defeat, his eyes twisted with sadness. He seemed to really be bothered about the whole incident. Grantaire looked at him with impatience.

“All the things I’ve ever said to you, they were inappropriate and rude and… If I had known-” Enjolras worked himself up, almost stumbling over his own words.

“But that’s the thing. I didn’t want you to know.” And it would have been better if Enjolras had never known, because Grantaire had convinced himself that he still had some integrity to hold up for him. “I didn’t want you to see me any different than anyone else.”

Enjolras gaped at him, and Grantaire wanted to be the one to apologize to him for messing up his face. “I wouldn’t.”

Grantaire huffed out a laugh. “But you already are. Do you even know how you’re looking at me?” Enjolras’ face scrunched up, telling him that he didn’t know.

“But what do you want me to do then?” Enjolras held up his hands in hopelessness. “I don’t want to argue with you, R.”

“We could never mention it again.” Grantaire would lie to himself if he had said that they had to cut off everything. He had stuck with these people from this peculiar group for a year now, and they had grown onto him. He wouldn’t deny himself that one joy. There was a possibility Enjolras hadn’t told anyone yet, and he could learn to deal with Enjolras alone.

“Do you have someone to talk to about this, though?” But why did Enjolras have to sound so kind?

“Suppose that you already know the answer to that,” he muttered. He shouldn’t be feeling ashamed for it, but Enjolras had his way of making him.

“What happened to you, it’s tragic. But you shouldn’t be suppressing it.” Enjolras stepped closer to him slowly, and Grantaire was cornered between the fences.

“Can’t you ever let something go, Enjolras?” Grantaire spat, narrowing his eyes, but he must have not look all that threatening with the basket under his arm.

Enjolras didn’t step away, searched his face intently. “I haven’t been there, no. You’re absolutely right about that.” He looked frustrated with his own limitations. “But how does that make me unfitting for wanting to help?”

Grantaire let his shoulder sack. “You can want.”

“Then let me want.”

Enjolras was a strong soul. He fought for what he thought was right, would stand against all opposition. He also had a big heart, what Grantaire tended to forget when he heard him speaking.

“What would you do?”

Enjolras beamed. “I won’t ask you to have a part in our campaign anymore, only if you tell me that you absolutely want to.”

Grantaire nodded. “Okay, that’s a start.” He nudged Enjolras out of the way to get back to work. Enjolras followed him around.

“Let me help you.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but let the other work beside him anyway. “If this is what you were implying with wanting to help…”

Enjolras stepped back suddenly, looking uncertain. “I didn’t want to impose.”

“I wanted to say that if you could come here every Saturday to do the laundry, if that’s the case.” He got a push in the shoulder for that.

They filled the basket with everything that was on the lines, sweating in the late afternoon sun. The neighbours on the other side waved at them when they came out onto their balcony, and Grantaire sometimes stopped to watch Enjolras in his element, sorting through the socks and finding the pairs. His bruised side was turned to Grantaire, and there was the guilt again that shot through him.

“Hey.” Enjolras looked up from the pile of socks. His face hardened at the sight of Grantaire. He must look anxious, but Grantaire found himself having to do this as a sign of forgiveness. He couldn’t just say he forgave him just yet.

“I’ll show you something.” And then, Grantaire stroked his curls behind where his ear had once been. “We’re kinda alike now,” he tried to joke when Enjolras’ eyes widened.

“That’s not what I’d call alike.” But Enjolras didn’t say anything else about it, and didn’t even look pitiful. After some time, when they were finishing the chore, Enjolras even looked calm. There was a small smile on his face, a private one.

And for the first time in a while, years maybe, Grantaire found rest

**Author's Note:**

> And maybe I will do a follow-up with more in depth relationship developments, yes.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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